


the one that leads me on through

by colourexplosion



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, I'm so sorry, M/M, Slow Burn, figure skating AU, i sure do, who doesn't love figure skating???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 69,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourexplosion/pseuds/colourexplosion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis was certain that he was done with his tenuous connection with fellow skater, Harry Styles. But then, you know, the universe throws a wrench in all that when Simon takes Harry on for the next season.</p><p>OR</p><p> </p><p>an AU in which the members of one direction are actually figure skaters</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO oh man, it's late (or early) so please forgive all this. 
> 
> First, this is like, my second fic posted to this fandom so please, gentle maybe? (Additionally, if anyone's interested in being a beta, drop me a line [at my tumblr](http://jessimond.tumblr.com/ask).)
> 
> Second, I have no excuse for this, except for the fact that I love figure skating, I love one direction, and Louis' ass reminds me of Johnny Weir's, so, there we go. That being said! Everything I know to be true about figure skating comes from a distinctly American experience (hence their training in LA), so please forgive anything I get wrong on that front. Also, probably some of the things that will happen in the future were definitely inspired by a book I read (Johnny Weir's autobiography, which is beautiful, seriously, read it) and when they come up I will be sure to mention that accordingly! THAT being said, Louis' career is loosely based on that of Johnny Weir's early one, and Harry's is based (very) loosely on Evan Lysacek's. Please don't judge me. 
> 
> Third, I have five parts planned out! I will try to write and post as regularly as I can, but I make no promises. Though, the Olympics are providing pretty great inspiration. 
> 
> Fourth, ENJOY! Thanks for reading!!! The title of this comes from Patrick Wolf's "The Magic Position"
> 
> PS: this is in no way true, I promise, it's just for fun! please don't show this to anyone even remotely connected to the band or any professional figure skaters okay thanks!

“Good one today, Tommo!” 

Louis looks across the locker room at the sound of Niall’s voice and gives him a grin. Yeah, he’d hit all his triples perfectly and hadn’t stumbled on his footwork once. Simon had given him a slight nod at the end of his practice and uncrossed his arms. Right, he’s not the most demonstrative coach, or the most open with like, affection and encouragement, but really it only makes Louis work harder. Makes it all the better when he can get the corner of Simon’s mouth to lift in approval. 

Anyway, Louis had a good day, and it’s nice that other people noticed too. 

“Thanks, Nialler,” he says with a grin, grabbing his towel. “Mine tonight? I’ve got FIFA and beer we can stare at longingly.” 

Niall nods, banging the door open. “Sounds good, mate,” he says, and disappears down the hall. 

\---

Louis sits down on his couch with a groan, lifting his feet back up onto the coffee table, unconcerned by the _thump!_ of a stack of magazines falling to the floor. He can pick them up later, it’s fine. 

“I really miss butter,” Louis says with a groan and Niall snorts. “Look, we can’t all eat whatever we want and still throw ourselves in the air on tiny pieces of metal.” 

“Not my fault this guy’s a bit of a monster,” Niall says, patting his flat stomach. “But really, Lou, you know you’re probably just paranoid, yeah? I’m sure it wouldn’t kill you to like, eat some butter.” 

Louis turns his head and glares, reaching over to pinch Niall’s nipple through his tank top. Louis keeps his flat-- apartment, as his American friends would remind him-- ridiculously warm to compensate for the fact that he spends almost eight hours a day in a freezing cold ice rink. 

“And fall flat on my face instead of landing my jumps? No thanks.” He’s actually only being dramatic. He eats butter, he does. Puts it on his toast sometimes, or in his potatoes, when he has them. Which, he actually doesn’t, that often. Mostly it’s salads these days, which is fine. And chicken. Chicken’s great. 

Anyway. 

“But, you know what I mean,” Louis asks, poking Niall in the ribs. Niall turns to look at him, quiet for a moment before nodding.

“Yeah, I know. It’d be nice not to have to watch it.” 

Louis lets out a breath. Niall’s a godsend, really. The way he just understands what Louis means with little to no explanation, and the way he laughs at almost everything Louis does. Everyone deserves a friend like Niall. Seriously. 

Which is why Louis promptly tackles him onto the couch.

“Oi! Get off me, you lump!” Niall hits him in the arm, but Louis ignores it. Niall will stop fighting in a second, Louis knows. 

“Just a cuddle, Niall,” he murmurs, tightening his arms around Niall’s shoulders, grinning when they slump and Niall sighs. 

“Could’ve just asked, you know,” he says, pushing at Louis’ chest, presumably so he’ll move into a more comfortable position. Louis’ only happy to oblige, twisting so he’s on his side, snuggled into the couch, one arm still wrapped securely around Niall’s waist. They’re not-- it’s not a _thing_ , like, a sexual thing. Louis just likes cuddles. A lot. Forces them on practically everyone. Even poor Liam, who, for a Pairs skater, really doesn’t like physical contact all that much. 

And Niall may act like he doesn’t like them, but Louis knows if it were really an issue, he’d tell him to stop. 

In any case, they settle on the couch together, Louis’ forehead pressed against the back of Niall’s shoulder, taking deep, steadying breaths. It’s hard to be out on the ice alone for so long. He thinks he might’ve preferred being an ice dancer or something, maybe pairs, if he’d been taller, but unfortunately his stature pretty much guarantees singles skating for the rest of his life. Or until he wears his bones down so much that he can’t move. Who knows? Anyway, he’d like to have a little more physical contact each day than Simon’s regulatory pat on the back after practice. 

“You hear about the new guy comin’ Monday?” 

Louis’ brow furrows, and he tilts his head up at Niall, who’s got an eyebrow raised, expectant, like he’s surprised Louis hasn’t brought it up before now. 

“What?” Louis sits up a little, a hand on Niall’s stomach to keep his balance. “What do you mean, new guy? Who switches coaches this late?” Who starts training with a new coach before they’ve even competed in Nationals or Worlds?? Not that Louis thinks they have a very good chance of, well, anything, especially because he skates for Britain, and the last time a male won a gold medal at the World Championships was 1976, so only one person gets to go each year, and Louis hasn’t gone since-- 

“Hey, Tommo, you still in there?” Niall taps the side of Louis’ cheek, drawing him out of his thoughts. 

“Sorry,” Louis says, shaking his head. “Had a bit of a moment, thinking about Worlds. Who is it, then?” 

Niall’s mouth presses into a thin line, and that’s never good, not coming from Niall, at least. 

“Harry Styles,” he says, and Louis stomach lurches. 

 

\---

The thing is, Louis feels most at home on the ice. 

He knows it’s stupid and cheesy and like, cliched as anything. He _knows_ that. But it doesn’t stop it from being any less true. Ever since he’d pulled on a pair of second-hand ice skates and gone out on the pond behind his house, trying to replicate the axel jump he’d seen so many skaters do. It looked like flying, which is why he liked it so much. Wanted to try it. Who doesn’t want to fly? Anyway, he knew it the moment his blade slid on the ice and took him to the center of the frozen pond and he knew it the first time he ever felt the slap and sting of ice on his legs, his arms, his back. The thing about destiny, Louis’ sure, is that only some people are lucky enough to find theirs. And he was. 

It was hard, figure skating. Not just the physical part of it-- which, Louis had to admit, once he started properly training and came home sore more nights than not, he’d maybe underestimated how taxing it’d be-- but, all of it. The stress of competitions, as low-level as they were; the pressure to get everything right at the right time, the pressure to do well so he wouldn’t feel like a failure to his mum, who picked up extra shifts to make sure he could get the necessary practice. 

It was bloody difficult, but it was all worth it when, at the tender age of sixteen, after just four years of skating, he’d stood atop the podium at the Junior World Championships, gold medal hanging heavy around his neck, a physical reminder that what he was doing had purpose, gave him a chance to be something better. He’d tightened his fingers around the ribbon and lifted his other hand in a wave to the audience, smiling as widely as he could. From that moment on, he’d had something to prove, and he intended to do so. 

The next year season brought him into his first year at the senior level, with actual Grand Prix assignments, which meant flying. Lots and lots of flying. In actual airplanes, to like, different countries, and stuff. He got sent to Russia and Canada, placed in the top ten for both of them, and came home for Nationals. Which he won. Then was World Championships, where he placed in the top twenty, and honestly, that was more than he could’ve asked for. 

His next season wasn’t so kind to him. The Grand Prix circuit went fine, and he made it to the actual Final, though his ending scores and placement weren’t ideal. The pressure had doubled, all of a sudden, and by the time he made it to the British National Championships for the second time, he sort of...imploded. Ran into the boards, fucked up his knee and had to take the next season off to recoup. Being eighteen and staring down a career ending injury probably would’ve scared someone else off the sport, but Louis was tenacious, and he fought for it, wanted it. He hadn’t dedicated six years of his life to get cut off early. Fuck that.

He was approached by Simon after he’d healed, after the doctor told him he was free to start training again. Like, literally, he got home from the doctor and his phone rang. It was a bit bizarre, really, and knowing what he does now about Simon, he’s fairly certain he planned the whole thing perfectly. Bit of a mafia boss, Simon is. Anyway. He’d made an offer: move to LA, get paid to skate and become one of the best. 

It wasn’t a really hard choice, in the end.

The season was almost halfway through by the time he’d decided to move, and there was no point in trying for something he wouldn’t get. Instead, he focused on furthering his recovery, re-learning his jumps and spins, better this time around. More consistent. It worked. 

He’s not sure how, but he got invited on a tour that summer. Paid appearances, and valuable training time. 

So, he went. And maybe that’s where his first memory of Harry’s from-- except, no, it’s not, because he remembers Junior World’s, looking down and to his left and finding a pair of green eyes and dimples and hair staring back at him, grinning widely. They’re the most substantial memories he has of Harry, though. How close they’d been, how they’d tear through hotel corridors and lobbies, racing each other to the pool to try to calm the summer heat. Crawling into each other’s bunks on the tour busses to whisper things about home and to complain about the other skaters, who definitely weren’t up to their snuff. Watching Harry skate like he was born for it every night and then walk around like a baby deer during the day, like he didn’t know how to balance unless he was perched on a quarter inch of steel and sliding across smooth ice. 

The feel of Harry’s fingertips digging into his skin, the rasp of his voice as Louis’ hand moved farther and farther up his thigh, the way his lips would bloom bright red after Louis kissed him hard in the stairwell, the feel of Harry’s curls between his fingers, soft like a kitten’s fur or his baby sister’s blanket. 

So, yeah, Louis remembers Harry from the time they spent together for two summers in a row, and he definitely remembers the sudden, all-consuming radio silence that followed with no explanation.

\---

His head is spinning a bit. He feels drunk, actually, but maybe that’s just because he sat up so quickly, but that’s a bit dumb, isn’t it? He’s a professional figure skater. He can withstand more G Force than a professional pilot. Astronaut? Something. Liam explained it once, but he hadn’t really been paying attention. 

Point is: he’s really fucking dizzy and Niall’s staring at him from his position on the couch, arms crossed. 

“Y’alright mate?” Louis feels a hand wrap around his bicep and oh, right, his eyes are closed, that shouldn’t be happening. 

“Fine,” he says, opening his eyes again, blinking a few times. “Just got a bit--” insert vague hand gesture. “Took me by surprise.” 

Niall’s still looking like he doesn’t quite believe him, but the ace thing about Niall is that he won’t press, not unless he thinks it’s really necessary. 

“If you’re sure,” he says, giving Louis’ arm a squeeze before retracting his hand. 

“I’m sure,” Louis says, settling back down into the couch, allowing his eyes to close once, brief, before looking back at Niall again. 

“Wait, so hold on,” he says, holding up a hand. “You’re telling me _Harry Styles_ is leaving his long-time coach to train in Los Angeles with Cowell?” 

Niall nods. “Seems like. Guess with Aiden retiring, Cowell’s got a free spot and Styles threw himself at it.” 

Louis bites his lip, something heavy settling in his chest. It’s not guilt, it’s _not_ , because he’d tried to keep the contact up, he really had. Texts and e-mails and skype calls, but you can really only reach out to someone so much before you get the message. Weeks of attempted contact ignored, and it's not as if Louis didn't have the fucking internet, and know that Harry was fine, and that he was just-- 

Well. 

So, they haven’t spoken in like, a year and a half. It’s fine. Totally fine. Cool, even. Super cool. 

“Thought you two were friends, way back when,” Niall says, oh-so casual and offhand, and Louis really hates how he can pull that off. Seriously. 

“Were, yeah,” Louis answers, clearing his throat. “S’hard, though, you know. Never got the same assignments, and I’m here, he was there.” He waves a hand, like that’s an actual explanation. 

Niall, bless him, just nods. “Reckon you’re right. It’ll be cool to have another guy, though,” he says, and then goes off on a tangent that Louis’ not really following. 

“Cool, yeah, I guess,” Louis says, slipping down back into his cuddling position. Niall’s arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him close, and Louis breathes in, and out. It’ll all be okay.

\---

Louis’ been with Cowell skating for three years. His recovery and rehab hadn’t taken more than a season-- he was young, thankfully, and the fall hadn’t been completely debilitating-- and the move and adjustments ate up his summer, so by the next season he’d placed his name in the pool and begun working on his programs. He’d had a bit of a later start than the others, but wasn’t that always the case? 

Anyway, when Louis had joined, Aiden was the only other person being coached by Simon, and they got on well enough. Never super close, but they could have a good laugh about Cowell’s Scowl (trademarked, thanks) or the weird janitor at the rink who spent just a bit too long watching them do their morning stretches. Louis’ a bit sad to see him go, really, but he gets it. All careers must end and all men must die, but still. It’s just. Sad. 

Niall had come the season after Louis, fresh out of his final junior level season, a third place finish at Junior World’s and with him came Liam and Danielle, the Pairs team, and Zayn and Perrie, Ice Dance. Jade and Leigh-Anne came the season after that: Ladies’ singles, and Jesy tagged along with them, lending her design and choreography skills to Team Cowell, who pretty much desperately needed it. They were a nice little group, really, so it’s hard to see someone go and be replaced with someone else. 

But, that’s figure skating, yeah? Ever-moving, ever changing, and if you stop, you might just get left behind. 

\---

Monday sneaks up on Louis, which sounds stupid, but it really does. It’s easy to lose track of days when you train for five (and sometimes six) of them per week. He spends most of his weekends sleeping and doing pilates, because he’s not allowed to drink and he’s not allowed to have sex, so there’s no reason for him to go out. He’d thought once about joining a book club, or something, but that would’ve required actual reading, so he gave up on that before it even started, really. He dedicates his time to his sport, though, because he wants to be the best, and he can be the best, so it’s not like he’s worried about like, missing out or anything. He’s got plenty of friends, even if he mostly sees them in the summer.

He pulls up to the rink Monday morning to find a huge, hideous black Range Rover in his parking spot. Well, not his official spot, because they don’t technically have those, but he’s been parking there long enough that everyone knows it’s _his_ spot. It’s the only place where, if it rains and your windows are down-- which is a poor habit of Louis’, leaving his windows down-- your seats won’t get ruined. And it’s really very inconvenient that someone’s taken it, because Louis had wanted to leave his down for a bit of a breeze. But, no, fine, whatever. He’ll just find the person and tell them not to park there tomorrow. Or he’ll throw a spectacular fit about it to the lads and forget about it.

He grumbles to himself a bit as he drives on, parking a little further down, and making sure to roll up his windows. He doubts there’s any threat of rain, but America’s a bit funny like that, and this day’s started as such that he’s not one to tempt fate. Been there, done that, had the knee surgery, thanks. 

He’s _still_ grumbling about it as he barges into the locker room, setting his bag down with a hard _crack!_ of plastic and rayon against the tile floor. He sees someone move out of the corner of his eye, figuring it’s Liam or Zayn, and all he’s ever needed for a rant is even a hint of audience, so he’s off. 

“D’you know who drives a range rover? One of those bloody massive black ones that usually means they’re compensating for something, y’know,” Louis snorts to himself, bends down to unzip his bag, and continues, “Anyway, not the point, the point is they fucking parked in my spot. Can you believe that? I mean, how passive aggressive can you even be? I’ve been here three years, parked in the same place for two years and like, eleven months, and it’s _my spot,_ yeah?” 

He flops down on the bench, pulling off his Toms’ and pulling out his trainers. Stretches and laps first, ice after morning break. S’how it always goes. He’s not really expecting an answer to his rant-- most of the lads know to just let him go off and ignore it-- so he goes about his business, loosening up his shoes and stuffing his feet into them. Forgoing socks, as always. 

“Um,” a voice says, and Louis freezes, his foot halfway into his trainer, because _fuck_ , he knows that voice. Christ. Shit. Shit bugger fuck. “Aren’t you going to wear socks?” 

Louis’ closes his eyes, inhales on a three count, holds it, and exhales. Right. He can do this. It’s just Harry, right? Ha. _Ha._

He turns slowly on the bench, finally stuffing his foot into the shoe as he does, and looks at Harry. 

And _fuck_ , Harry is-- Harry is the same, mostly, because his eyes are still that ridiculous blue-green, his mouth is still ridiculously pink, practically begging to be bitten red, and his stupid hair is still stupidly curly and soft-looking. He’s tall, which he wasn’t before, not particularly, and shirtless-- never was much fond of clothes, Louis remembers-- but his once smooth, pale skin has been inked, marked by symbols that don’t seem to mean anything. A butterfly-- moth?-- on his stomach, two swallows on his chest, letters and images that just-- don’t mean anything. At least, they don’t to Louis, and he feels something tighten in his chest at the realization. 

“Haven’t you heard, Styles,” he says, though his voice sounds tight to his own ears, an unnatural edge to it that shouldn’t be there, because this is just Harry. Harry, who made him happy for two summers and then fucked off when Louis’ life got too ridiculous to deal with. Harry, who got too busy for their skype calls and their e-mails and even their bloody text messages. Fuck. “It’s what all the champions do.” 

The silence that hangs between them stretches, seems to be centered in the tight spot in Louis’ chest and tugs there, hard, until Louis turns his back on Harry’s gaze, and if he were more dramatic, he’d swear he hears it snap. 

The only sound that follows is that of breathing and the pull of laces through the holes on shoes, fabric slipping across skin, lockers being closed and footsteps, retreating. A door opening. 

“And um--” Louis jumps, head snapping to Harry at the door, not even pretending like he didn’t know exactly where he was anyway. Harry won’t look at him though, just hangs halfway out the door, a large hand curling around the frame, his hair hanging down in his eyes. Louis thinks he sees a flush of pink along the ridges of his cheeks, but that could just be a trick of the light. 

“Um--” he says again, and it irritates Louis, almost out of nowhere, really. The stuttering, how closed off he’s gotten. This isn’t Harry, and this isn’t how they interact. This is wrong. 

“What?” he snaps it, and Harry flinches, actually physically flinches, and whatever irritation Louis felt disappears at that and gets replaced with something colder, that weighs him down. Dread, maybe. Guilt. Regret. 

“Um, the person, who like, parked in your spot, or whatever,” Harry says, still not looking at him. “They probably didn’t know it was yours.” 

Louis blinks, looks down to his bag. Of course Harry parked in his spot. Of course Harry picked the first spot he came on and parked there, because it wasn’t marked, and it’s not even really Louis’ spot and Christ, he’s such an arse. 

He looks up, opens his mouth to apologize, but Harry’s already gone. Right, then. 

Another time.

\---

Practice, predictably, goes fucking awfully. 

His unexpected encounter with Harry’s left Louis on the wrong foot all day, and what he really needs to do is corner Harry, apologize, and then maybe pull him back into the locker room for a quickie or-- wait, no, what? That’s-- That’s not a line of thought Louis’ allowed himself to consider for a long time, because it’s like-- well, for eight months of the year, he’s barely allowed to wank, let alone get off with another person, and he thinks it’d be different even if he were married. Not that he’s getting married any time soon, or even really wants to, but-- Right. Okay. Focus. 

Practice is awful because Louis’ head, obviously, is anywhere but where it needs to be, so he falls on his triple sow, his triple toe, pops all of his axels, and doesn’t even _consider_ the possibility of trying a quad, because he can only land it fifty percent of the time on a good day, and his ass is sore and he’ll have a new collection of bruises tomorrow. And, to top it all off, Harry’s there for the last part of his practice time, just in time to see his spectacular fall that knocks the wind out of him, leaves him on his back, staring at the ceiling. He hears blades scraping across the ice, takes a deep breath and lets it out when Simon bends over him, silent and radiating disappointment, offering a hand. 

They skate back to the sides, Simon’s hand firm on his shoulder, and Louis rests hard against the wall, fingers tightening around the edge. 

“I’m disappointed in your performance today,” Simon says, voice soft but not particularly gentle. Not unkind, either, just. Unwavering. Firm, like his hand had been on Louis’ shoulder. “Do better tomorrow. I know you can.” 

Louis nods, keeps his head down as he gathers his blade guards and slips them on, walking to the bench and sitting down, untying his laces with almost mechanical movements. He doesn’t watch as Harry takes the ice to begin his practice time, blocks out the noise of his music over the speakers and peels off his practice socks-- Simon would literally stab him with his own skate if he didn’t wear them-- and gathers his things, walking back into the locker room. 

\---

His falls mean he has to take an ice bath, which is probably his least favorite part of being a professional athlete. He knows they’re necessary, he gets it, really, but submerging yourself in ice water for up to twenty minutes just seems cruel. And a bit suicidal, but Louis jumps around on ice with knives strapped to his feet, so maybe he can’t really talk. 

Louis is lucky, though, because he’s managed to convince his trainers that he really doesn’t need one every day. There’s no getting out of it today, though-- because why would there, that’d almost be a kindness from the universe-- so he grits his teeth and gets in. 

“Thought you’d put up more of a fight, to be honest,” Greg James, the main trainer, says. Louis shrugs, face screwed up against the pain. It’ll pass in a minute or so, when he goes numb, so he focuses on breathing. 

“Didn’t feel like it today, I guess,” he says finally, and Greg nods, gives him a small sort of smile. Louis likes Greg. He’s a good guy; smart and capable and definitely good for a laugh, and game for most of Louis’ stupid pranks, which is all he can ask for in a mate, really. He’s about to say something else, but the door bangs open and Niall strides in, arms wide. 

“Niall!” Everyone’s always excited to see Niall. It’s a little disgusting, actually, how likeable he is. 

“Greg,” Niall wraps his arms around him, squeezes his shoulders and Louis snorts from his position in the tub. Niall doesn’t seem to hear him, though, or if he does, he ignores it, and flutters his lashes at Greg. “Draw me my bath?” 

“Anything for you, darling,” Greg responds, painting on a soppy smile, and Louis feels the tightness in his chest loosen for the first time all day. 

“Keep it PG, lads,” he says, voice dry, eyebrow arched. “Unless you _want_ an audience.”

“Ah, you know me, mate,” Niall says with a laugh, letting go of Greg and stooping down to give Louis a kiss on the top of the head. “Always prefer an audience.” 

Louis laughs and splashes a bit of water at him, cackling when he hisses. Niall settles on the bench as Greg rounds the corner, presumably to get a towel for Louis. Or more ice. Who knows? 

“You alright?” Niall’s voice is soft, and Louis’ eyes flick up to his, then away. 

“Yeah, bad day,” he says, and Niall hums. 

“I’d give ya a cuddle, but ‘m about to suffer through one of those myself. Don’t think Greg’s too keen on us sharin’.” 

Louis laughs again as Greg comes back to pour ice into the metal tub and the sound drowns out everything else.

\---

“Louis, a moment please.” 

How exactly Simon manages to make his voice carry over the sound of the air conditioners and freezers and general _noise_ of an ice rink will forever baffle Louis. It’s like a superpower. A slightly useless one, true, but still. Louis wants a superpower. 

He may have hit his head on one of those many falls today. 

“What can I do you for, coach?” he says, rerouting himself toward Simon’s office. He’s moving slowly, still stiff from the bath and from his falls, but he’s being beckoned. It’d be an awful idea not to go.

“I’m sure you know Harry,” Simon says, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. One of which is actually occupied by Harry, who’s not looking at them, and is instead looking down at a pair of ratty-- and ridiculously tight-- black jeans, tugging at a thread. Louis wants to reach out, still his hand and link their fingers. 

He doesn’t. 

“We’re acquainted,” Louis says, giving Simon a smile. Simon raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t press. Louis’ sure he knows all about their past. They didn’t exactly keep it a secret; though they were careful to avoid, ah, physical proof. Photos, videos, things like that. Just, careful. 

“Good,” Simon says, nodding at the empty chair which Louis sits in immediately. “I’d like you to show him around.” 

Louis frowns before he can help it. “I’m sorry?” 

“You know, give him the run of the place,” Simon says, and he’s kind of talking about Harry like Harry’s not even there, which is weird and a little rude, but Simon’s not known for his kindness, is he. 

“I’ve been here before,” Harry says, startling Louis a little, but not enough to make him turn. He can already imagine the look on Harry’s face, tight and indignant like his voice. “I’m not-- LA isn’t new to me.” 

Which, _what?_ That’s news to Louis, who knew that, as of a year and a half ago, Harry had never been to LA, but kept promising to come and visit and--

Right. 

“Though that may be true,” Simon says, and Harry makes a noise like he wants to interrupt, but he doesn’t, so that’s good, at least. “It’s different, now. You’re a part of something larger. A team. Aiden’s gone now, which means you’ve been here the longest, Louis.” 

Louis nods, because he knows that, but that doesn’t-- that doesn’t make him like, a leader, or whatever. Does it? He definitely, definitely didn’t sign up to help newbies acclimate to their transitions. Or has Simon forgotten that he’s a professional figure skater??

“I’m a skater, not a bloody babysitter,” he snaps, and Simon’s eyebrows raise. Nope, that’s a line, a big thick line drawn in sand and Louis just did a flying leap over it. At least he didn’t double foot his landing. It’s silent in the room, so, _so_ silent that Louis thinks he might choke on it.

He clears his throat, looks away from Simon, and sighs. “But, in the name of team unity,” he says, and he can practically feel Simon’s grin. 

“Good lad,” Simon says, then slaps his desk. “All right, out with you both. I’ve got work to do.” 

Louis stands and exits, not waiting for Harry to catch up.

Of course, Harry’s legs are obscenely long, so it doesn’t take him much time to catch up, but Louis ignores him and pushes out the door, shielding his eyes from the bright sun.

“Christ, gets me every time,” he grumbles, and has to keep himself from smirking when he hears Harry’s snicker from beside him. Okay, he can do this. Simon wants him to. Besides, it won’t be long until Harry meets Niall and they’re friends, and then Louis will have to hang out with him. 

He turns, one hand tightening on the strap of his bag, the other shielding his eyes from the sun. 

“Right, so, I know we didn’t get off to a good start today,” Louis says, and Harry doesn’t react except to shrug, which, yeah, okay, it’s better than a snort, though, maybe. “But uh, I reckon Cowell’s at least a little bit right, yeah? So uh-- I’ll uh--” God, he must sound like an idiot. Harry’s certainly looking at him like he can’t believe what’s coming out of his mouth. 

“I’ll just text you, then? Sometime?” Louis hates the way his voice goes higher at the end. Bloody insecurity can fuck right off, thanks. 

“Um, yeah,” Harry says, hands scrambling for something, “let me just get my phone,” he continues, but Louis waves him off, blinded for a moment by the sun. 

“I still have your number,” he says, unthinking, and Harry freezes, and Louis feels heat bloom across his cheeks and up the back of his neck. Fuck. He hasn’t blushed since primary, probably. “Unless it’s changed,” he adds, pathetic. Who keeps the number of someone they haven’t spoken to for a year and a half? Desperate idiots and, obviously, Louis. 

“No,” Harry says slowly, shaking his head. “It’s um. It’s the same. But I--” His brow creases, mouth presses together, and Louis doesn’t know what to make of that expression, so he lets it lie. 

“Just-- just tell me it’s you when you do, yeah?” Harry says, carefully, like the words are glass coming out of his mouth, and Louis nods, because he would’ve done that anyway. He expects people to do it when they’re texting him the first time so he can save their number the right-- Oh. _Oh._ Well. That stings a little more than he thought it would.

Louis feels his mouth go into a thin line, and he nods. 

“Sure thing. See you,” he says, turns abruptly on his heel and stalks to his car. He throws his bag in the boot and sits behind the wheel a moment, inhales, exhales and starts the car. 

Fuck this day, truly.

\---

(Harry’s standing at the back of his Range Rover when Louis pulls out to leave, and he slows down, comes to a stop and rolls down a window. 

“Styles,” he says, loud over his music. He won’t turn it down. Doesn’t matter. It’s his car, after all. 

“Yeah?” Harry’s crouched a bit to see in the window, but not come any closer. 

“Don’t park in my spot again,” Louis says, gives him a two fingered salute, and drives off.)


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the word count of this chapter is almost double the first, and I was planning on making it longer, but then decided to split it in half, because it's a bit ridiculous otherwise. which means a chapter got added! 
> 
> this is un-beta'd, any/all mistakes are mine, and if you have any questions about the figure skating aspects of it, please let me know! I've linked to youtube videos of music mentioned. 
> 
> also, obligatory disclaimer: this is in no way true and I made it all up. please don't show it to anyone connected to the boys or to any professional figure skaters okay thanks! enjoy!

Harry doesn’t park in his spot again. 

It’s a good thing, it really is, because now Louis won’t have to throw a fit again and make an idiot of himself. It’s good, yeah, and Louis leaves his windows down, just because he can. 

But, anyway, things go pretty easily after that. As apprehensive as Louis was about Harry’s continued presence, it turns out that they don’t actually overlap all that much. Maybe a bit of a conversation in the locker room before stretches, and sometimes they end up at the same place for lunch because Harry’s made friends with, well, everyone except Louis, basically, and that’s fine. Simon seems pleased, at the very least. Anyway, there’s minimal interaction, and Harry, for his part, seems pretty serious about his training. 

Obviously. They’re all serious about their training, but Harry seems...intense about it, almost, like he’s really interested in everything Simon has to tell him, and welcomes the criticism. Good for him, then. Louis supposes that was his reason for changing, after all. Apparently the situation with his coaching team in England had reached some sort of critical mass, and Harry had barely given a week’s notice before leaving them. Caused a bit of a stir, really, but that’s Harry. 

It’s about two weeks before they’re set to travel to England for Nationals and Louis’ in the middle of his practice time, John Adam’s  “Short Ride in a Fast Machine” blaring over the speakers. He’s on the second part of his footwork, just about to transition into a camel spin when the doors bang open. He stumbles a bit but blocks it out. This is one of his best runs; he doesn’t need to fuck it up now. 

He hits his end pose and his music cuts off, and he’s startled by the applause that comes from the side. It’s just one person-- not Simon, obviously, who’s actually disappeared somewhere, but Louis can be irritated later-- a woman he definitely doesn’t know. He’s not one to ignore praise, though, so he skates over, giving a wave. 

“That was a hell of a program,” she says, and he’s pleased to find out she’s got an accent. A friend of Simon’s, maybe. She seems familiar in an offhand sort of way, like he’s seen her before, but he can’t place it. 

“Thanks,” he says, giving her a grin. Again, gift horses. He’s also not entirely sure where Simon’s gone, or why she’s here in the first place, so: “Ah, can I ask your name, love?” 

“Oh! Oh, of course,” she says, laughing a bit, and Louis keeps smiling, just waiting for that answer. “Caroline,” he nods. “Caroline Flack.” 

Louis knows that name, which only adds to the feeling that he’s supposed to know who she is, or that he’s missing something important. Annoying. Also, why is she here? 

“Ms. Flack,” he says smoothly, but she interrupts with: “Caroline, please.” He nods. 

“Caroline, then. I’m glad you enjoyed the show, but I feel like I have to tell you that this is a private training session.” You know, when his coach bothers to show up. “So if there’s something you needed...?” 

She looks like she’s about to answer, but her eyes widen instead, and she just _leaves_ , starts walking quickly, her shoes clacking against the floor. He follows her movement-- and this place really has got to get some better security, because she’s clearly a bit mad, and she could be dangerous or something-- watches as she lets out a squeal and runs right into someone’s arms. 

Right. Harry’s arms, because that’s where Louis’ heard of Caroline Flack. His personal choreographer, who he’s definitely been, ah, _linked_ to. Sexually. Sexually linked. 

Louis turns away from them, takes his starting position and nods to the bloke who runs the music for their practices, letting himself get lost in the music and absolutely does not snap at the two of them to clear the rink. They can watch, if they really want. If they’re not too distracted. Ahem. 

His generosity means, unfortunately, that they’re still there when Louis finishes again, but at least they’ve been joined by Simon. (Seriously, they’re going to have words about him just fucking off in the middle of Louis’ practice time.) 

Caroline applauds again, and Louis takes the time to practice his bow before skating over, painting a smile on. It’s been awhile since he’s had anyone except Simon watch him practice and it’s definitely the first time Harry’s been in the same room as him while he performs for at least a year. Not that that’s important. Whatever. Definitely not important that Harry’s face is so twisted up it’s painful, like he can’t even bear to watch Louis skate. Joke’s on him.

“Decent progress,” Simon says, and Louis grins at him. When did he get to the point where he strives for ‘decent’ from his coach? He’s not entirely sure, but his first inclination is to blame Simon. “Go ahead early. You’ve earned it.” 

Louis nearly falls over in his haste to get off the ice, not even bothering with skate guards, just bending over to untie his laces and step out of his skates. Thank god. He really needs a rest. Maybe a bath. A hot one, not an ice bath. If Greg tries to force him into an ice bath, Louis may actually stab him with his skate.

“Your program’s really well done,” Caroline says, and Louis startles, not even knowing she was paying attention. He steps out of his second skate and runs a hand through his hair, shaking it a bit. Sweaty. Disgusting. 

“Thanks,” he says, “Did most of the choreography myself, so that means a lot.” Caroline smiles at him, a small little thing, like maybe she knows something he doesn’t, and it reminds him that yeah, she’s a bit mad. 

“I get it now, I think,” she says, in an all-too-casual sort of way, and Louis raises an eyebrow. Gets what, exactly? Why he’s won so many bloody medals? It’s not as if he didn’t work for them, or they weren’t deserved. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice just a bit too sharp. Caroline doesn’t seem too perturbed, though. “What’s that?” 

Her eyes flick to the ice, and Louis can hear blades scraping across the surface. 

“Why he’s always talking about you,” she says, then turns away, leaving Louis staring at her back. 

\---

Caroline stays for the next two weeks, helping Harry adjust and tweak his programs with, it seems, suggestions from Simon. Louis’ yet to see the whole thing, but it’s good. It’s been scoring ridiculously high in the Grand Prix assignments, but then again, so has Louis’. The main difference is that Louis tends to score lower, but give consistent performances. He knows Harry’s been having trouble with landing his quad toe, but still attempts it every time he’s on the ice. It’s brave, but a bit not worth the risk, at least not to someone like Louis.

Anyway, for people who’ve supposedly fucking regularly, Harry and Caroline are pretty...tame. There’s lots of physical contact, of course, like when Harry wraps an arm around her waist as they exit the rink, or when she lets her hands linger on his hips, thighs, shoulders just a touch too long while they’re practicing choreo off the ice. There’s the long looks in the dance studio, the way Caroline comes in wearing Harry’s beanies and scarves-- and that’s just a bit obnoxious, really. It may be November, but it’s not like Los Angeles ever gets _cold._ Though it could boil down to something like professionalism, and not wanting to be inappropriate in a place where Harry’s the odd guy out, as it were. 

They’re not distracting, per say, but it’s still just-- confusing. Louis spends too much of his time thinking about them, and whether or not the rumors are true and not enough time focusing on other things. Important things. Things that aren’t Harry’s sex life. 

He’s actually actively _not_ thinking about it as walks down the corridor to a storage closet and opens the door on the two of them kissing. Then it all becomes a little less confusing and a lot more, ah, clear. Obvious, even. 

“Right, sorry,” he says, averting his eyes from Harry’s hand on Caroline’s bum, her flushed cheeks and mouth open in surprise. Ignores Harry’s wide eyes, his red lips, the twist of his t-shirt around his waist and his jumper crumpled on the floor. This is the last place Louis wants to be right now, except for maybe performing his free skate completely starkers on Olympic ice. 

“Um,” Harry says, and right, no, actually Louis would much rather be naked and performing in the Olympics. That’d be a much better situation.

Louis takes a step back, clears his throat. “I’ll just leave you to it, then,” he says, and doesn’t wait for an answer, just lets the door shut and high-tails it back down the corridor. 

\---

Liam’s waiting for him in the locker room when he gets back, because, right, fuck, he’d gone to look for towels. He frowns when Louis enters, slightly breathless and probably bright red.

“Ought to just take a shower at home, Payno,” he says, trying a smile. “Storage room was a bit, er, _occupado_ , yeah?” 

Liam’s frown deepens from where he’s sitting on the bench and he straightens. “What do you mean? Are you all right? Uou look a bit ill.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Louis waves him off. “There were people in there. Er. Doing things.” He can feel a flush at the back of his neck, and god, since when does this sort of thing make Louis do anything but laugh and take the piss? 

“Oh,” Liam says, blinking a few times. He seems to be a bit lost for words. Louis can relate; people don’t make it a habit to fool around in storage closets, especially with Simon always lurking. “Who was it?” 

The door opens before Louis can say anything, and Harry steps in, his jumper in his hand and a giant fucking hickey just under his collar bone, right next to a tattoo visible because of his stupid v neck t-shirt. Louis clenches his hand into a fist, holds it, lets it go with a breath. Yeah. Okay. Maybe that feeling in the pit of his stomach is jealousy, but it’s not about-- it’s not about _Harry._ He just hasn’t had a shag since summer. Overdue, really.

“Gonna head home now, Li, see you later,” he says, gathering his shit, stuffing it into his bag and picking up his phone, slipping an earbud into his ear. 

“Might want to hide that from Cowell before he puts you on a schedule,” Louis says, flicking the mark on Harry’s chest as he passes, not waiting for a response. Likes to have the last laugh, as it were. There’s nothing wrong with that. 

And if the hiss of pain that Harry’d let out when Louis had flicked him makes the feeling dissipate a bit, well, there’s nothing wrong with that either. 

\---

Not that he’d ever admit this aloud, ever, but he’s a bit nervous going into the championships, only because he has no idea what to expect. At all. That’s never sat well with him and they’re too far off from the competition for the stress to do anything except make him a bit of a jittery mess in the mornings. It’s awful, actually. 

“Look, I know you always get this way, but I need you to take it somewhere else today,” Zayn says on Friday morning before starting their workout. Emphasis on weights today, ice time tomorrow. He’ll sneak in a little jump practice later. Just a little! And then, Sunday, they fly out to Manchester, get a train to Sheffield. Louis’ will see his family for the first time all year and compete to go to Worlds’. It’s fine. He’s fine. 

He’s a fucking wreck.

“Dunno what you’re on about,” Louis says, and Zayn reaches over to grab Louis’ hand, which, he hadn’t noticed before, has been shaking like a bloody palm tree in one of those storms they get in the fall. 

“You’ve been eating, yeah?” Zayn’s tone is gentle, and Louis snorts, tears his hand away. 

“Yes, _Mum_ , I’ve been eating just fine. Following the diet to the letter. You need me to take a photo or summat?” 

Zayn snorts, flips him off. Right. Thought so. Louis takes a few deep breaths anyway, like he’d learned to from the sports psychologist after the accident, and when he reaches out for his water again, they’re (mostly) stable. He sees Zayn looking and sticks his tongue out. Liam appears in the doorway, a grin on his face.

“Ready lads?” 

“Christ, what’s got you in such a good mood?” Zayn sounds petulant, but Louis knows it’s all an act. They’re creepily close. Kind of like him and Niall, actually. They’re all a bit like that with each other, really. It’s nice. 

“Getting to spend time with my favorite boys, of course,” Liam answers sweetly, fluttering his eyelashes. Zayn snorts, and Louis barks out a laugh. 

“Please. What was yesterday, Thursday? So you and Danielle got to have your weekly sex romp, yeah?” Liam’s cheeks go pink, but he doesn’t deny it, so Louis grins. He’s about to say something else, but a voice behind Liam beats him to it. 

“Is everyone invited to this sex romp, or is it just a pairs thing?” Harry’s head appears over Liam’s shoulder and disappears just as quickly as he dodges the elbow Liam sends flying behind himself.

“It’s just a couples thing, actually,” Louis says as Liam and Harry enter the room. He can be friendly. He can. He will. Like the Little Skater Who Could or something. He doesn’t need to mention the incident with Caroline and the storage closet. He doesn’t. What would his mum think if he did? So, friendly. 

“Those of us who are single only enjoy the company of our right hands,” he adds, wiggling his fingers. He’s fairly certain it’s Simon’s favorite rule.

“I’m fairly certain it’s Simon’s favorite rule.”

Harry laughs, bright and so loud that he has to cover his mouth as he doubles over. It makes something warm bloom in Louis’ chest. He has to look away. 

“What’s all this, then?” Niall asks it from the doorway, setting his water bottle down on the floor. 

“It’s a work out party, mate,” Louis answers, gesturing to the weights and mats around them. Duh, Niall. “And you’re late.” 

“Ah, just on time.” Niall looks at them all and grins. “Party doesn’t start ‘til I walk in, eh?” 

Everyone groans and grabs a mat, and Louis feels calmer than he has in a long while.

\---

 _Planes._

Planes are the worst thing about this whole professional athlete career of his, and Louis used to love flying. But something about flying for twelve billion hours only to compete and maybe humiliate himself in his home country-- or a foreign country where he feels suitably unwelcome, thanks-- really takes the fun out of it. 

At least he’s not as bad as Zayn, who’d never been on a plane before starting his real career like, three years ago. (Louis had been there to hold his hand, of course. And to convince him that the plane had to do a loop-de-loop during take off. He’s pretty sure Zayn still hasn’t completely forgiven him.) He’d like to just take a sleeping pill or something and wait it out, but Simon’s certain that’d mess with his precarious balance and throw off his performance. Louis’ tried to tell him that not getting enough sleep does that too, but there’s no reasoning with him, really. 

“Think I’m gonna be sick,” Zayn says, though he says it every time they get on a plane. He’s usually saying it to Perrie, though. They’re pretty inseparable during the season-- Louis’ surprised they’re not dating yet-- so it was a bit odd when Zayn had plopped down in the seat next to Louis and Jade had taken the one next to Perrie. 

“Deep breaths, yeah?” Louis puts a hand over Zayn’s, squeezing his fingers a bit. Louis is a strong believer in physical reassurance. “First fifteen minutes is the worst. You know that.” 

Zayn nods, closes his eyes, and Louis looks up as a shadow falls over their hands. 

It’s Harry, of course, because who else would it be? He’s sans Caroline, though, so Louis gives him a nod. Still being friendly.

“Statistically speaking, something like ninety-five percent of all complications and accidents occur within the first and last twenty minutes of a plane ride,” he says, in lieu of a normal fucking greeting, apparently, and Zayn’s eyes fly open. 

He looks at Louis, eyes wide. “During the landing, too?” He sounds almost comically pathetic, and if it were anyone else, Louis would be laughing. It’s Zayn, though, who gives most of his winnings to like, charity and stuff and bought his mum a house and who hates America’s fascination with hunting because he thinks it’s barbaric. 

Louis sends Harry a glare that makes him flinch and laces his fingers between Zayn’s. 

“I’ll be here the whole time, yeah?” he says, trying his best to replicate the voice he’d use on his sisters to calm them down. It seems to work, because Zayn nods and sits back. 

“I’m,” Harry starts, face doing something that Louis thinks might be an apologetic expression, but he cuts him off with another glare and: 

“If you’ve quite finished, Styles,” he says, tone ruder than it should be, he knows, but seriously, _who does that_? “I think Zayn here would appreciate it if you’d kindly fuck off. I know I would.” 

Harry closes his mouth and nods, making his way down the aisle to where ever it is that he’s sitting. Whatever, Louis doesn’t care. This plane ride’s just twelve hours he doesn’t have to spend with him. Thank christ. 

\---

“You seem better,” Louis says, voice a murmur as they soar high over the Atlantic Ocean. They’re in hour eight of their flight, and Zayn looks at him, eyes bleary with sleep that won’t come. Louis knows the feeling. 

“A bit, yeah,” Zayn says, nodding slightly. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyelids drooping briefly before snapping open, more alert. 

“You were a right dick to Harry earlier,” he says, and Louis snorts. 

“Yeah? And he was a right dick to you and you were in no place to defend yourself.” 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were suddenly my knight in shining fucking armour.” Zayn rolls his eyes and flicks Louis’ ear. 

“ _Ow_ , arsehole. Fine,” Louis pouts a bit, crossing his arms across his chest. “See if I ever defend your honor again.” 

It gets him another flick from Zayn, harder this time and on his eyebrow, which: “If that bruises, I’m telling Simon,” he says, and Zayn actually laughs at him. He hasn’t done anything except sulk and look ill for the past eight hours, so Louis supposes he can sacrifice a bit of his face to get him to laugh. 

“My honor didn’t need defending, you tit,” Zayn says, but his voice is doing that thing where it sounds like he thinks you’re stupid but he’s actually just unbearably fond of you. Warm, maybe. Warmth. “He’s just like that, yeah? Harry. Says random shit, especially when he’s nervous.” 

Louis raises an eyebrow. Well. “I didn’t realize you two were so well acquainted,” he says primly, uncrossing his arms. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Zayn says, but no, Louis’ got him now. There’s no reason to stop. 

“No, really, would you like me to fetch him for you? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind switching seats.” 

Zayn slaps him in the arm, which makes him laugh because it doesn’t _hurt._ It’s just funny when Louis can get him to do that. 

“Fuck off,” he says, tone still full of that same warmth and Louis lets it wash over him. “I mean, I know him a little from before, yeah? And we had the same Grand Prix assignment. Skate America, you know?” 

Louis nods, remembering how jealous he’d been that Zayn and Perrie had gotten to drive to one of their events, since it’d only been a few hours away in northern California. Louis lets it go, lets silence fill up the air between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. It never is with Zayn. 

He can’t help but resent it a little, though, the whole situation. He and Harry not having spoken for a year and a half. Not having seen him for even longer than that. Harry deleting his number when Louis had kept his, clinging to some stupid-- No. Whatever. Apparently, Harry’s just someone he doesn’t know any more, and that’s fine. That’s how it’ll have to be. 

“His program’s good, yeah?” Louis’ voice is quieter than he wants, giving too much away. Zayn looks at him and his eyes go soft around the edges, like he knows. Louis wishes he could know too, whatever it is that Zayn’s seeing. 

“Yeah,” Zayn murmurs, tapping his index finger on the back of Louis’ hand. “It’s brilliant.”

Louis hums noncommittally, clears his throat and says the first thing he can think of. 

“So, what’s up with you and Pez?” It’s probably not what Zayn wants to talk about, but, well, whatever. Louis won’t force him into anything. 

“Not sure,” Zayn says with a shrug. “She seemed kinda upset the last few days, but she won’t tell me what’s wrong. Think she’s homesick.” 

Louis nods. He can definitely understand that. There are days he wakes up and would give his left foot to be in his bed at home in Doncaster and have his mum make him breakfast.

“Hopefully it’ll be better after this, yeah?” Louis tries to sound hopeful, for Zayn’s sake. He thinks it works, maybe, because Zayn’s nodding. 

“Yeah, m’sure it’ll be fine,” he says, and Louis gives him a smile before settling back into his seat.

\---

The remaining hours pass without incident. Louis doesn’t apologize to Harry because he doesn’t feel like it’s important. (Besides, Harry’s probably forgotten about the whole thing anyway, by now.) Also, he’d have to actually get up out of his seat and go and find Styles to apologize, and he’s not completely sure Zayn wouldn’t have a breakdown in his absence. 

Yeah, that’s a load of shit, but the part about the walking still stands. Bloody inconvenient. 

He manages to fall asleep for the last leg of the trip and wakes to the soft _ding!_ of the seat belt light coming on. The pilot’s voice is loud over the speakers, and Louis tilts his seat up, groggily running a hand through his hair. 

“I hate flying,” he mumbles, and Zayn makes a soft noise next to him. At least he’s not alone.

\---

“Where’s our room key, then?” 

Louis looks at Niall expectantly, tapping his fingers on his thigh as he sits in the lobby of their hotel, Zayn nearly passed out on his shoulder. It’s eight in the morning, and Louis has only had four hours of sleep in the past day (or two? fuck time zones) and the only thing he wants is a scalding hot shower and a nap.

“About that,” Niall says, wincing, and Harry emerges from behind him, face blank. He walks up to Louis and holds out a keycard to him. Louis doesn’t pay any mind to it, just keeps looking at Niall. He’s sharing with Niall. He always shares with Niall. 

“Room 506,” Harry says, voice low and rough with what Louis assumes is sleep. Always was a bit of a napper, Harry. God, Louis really needs to stop thinking about that. The past. Nothing good can come from it. 

But, wait, hold on, why’s Harry telling him? Maybe because Zayn’s with him…?

Louis jostles his shoulder, laughing a bit as Zayn’s face crumples up in indignation. “Did you hear the nice man, Zaynie? Room 506.” 

Harry clears his throat and Louis looks back to him. “Um, no, sorry,” Harry says, arm still outstretched, holding the key out to Louis. He shakes it a bit, like he wants Louis to take it. 

“What,” Louis says, staring at it. 

“Stop being difficult on purpose, Louis, we’re tired,” Niall says, _Niall_ , sounding exasperated. What’s Louis missing?

Louis frowns and looks between them. “I’m not?” He really isn’t. Not on purpose, at least. Niall sighs, shakes his head. 

“Zayn,” Niall says, more pointed than Louis thinks he ought to be. “We’re in 508. Come on,” He bends down to grab Zayn’s arm, who goes easily enough, leaving Louis sitting in the chair and staring at the key in front of him. 

“Oh,” he says dumbly, taking it gently from Harry’s fingers, and stands. “Right then.” 

He and Harry walk to the elevator in silence, a silence that Louis wants to blame on jetlag or exhaustion, but it’s too heavy for that and he knows it. The elevator ride is just as bad, mostly because they’re the only two in the damn thing, and the one thing Louis’ traitorous mind can think of is the last time he was alone with Harry in an elevator, somewhere in the Midwest, high off audience applause and cheap wine they’d snuck out of the hotel bar. He remembers pushing Harry against the wall, kissing him until the taste of sour wine had disappeared and been replaced with something much more pleasant. The way Harry had shuddered against him when he’d run his hand over the bulge in his jeans-- no, he’s fairly certain he could never forget that. 

He is starting to wonder, though, if he made it all up. If he’s remembering their friendship incorrectly and projecting fantasies onto memories and twisting the two together. He had also suffered a concussion when he injured his knee, but the doctor assured him it’d been slight and no permanent damage had been done. Now, Louis’ not so sure. Harry’s given absolutely no indication of their past. How can their memories be so different? How can he just act like it was nothing, like Louis didn’t get choked up when he told Harry he was moving to LA and like he didn’t steal one of his jumpers to keep. It just doesn’t make sense, and it fucking hurts. 

The doors open on the fifth floor and he’s out of the elevator before Harry, striding down the corridor to their room. Fuck, their _room._ That they have to share. If Louis weren’t so fucking tired he’d throw a fit. A proper one, full of yelling and foot stomping and probably tears, at this point. His five year old twin sisters would be jealous, he’s sure.

He settles for jamming the keycard into the door roughly and ripping it out, which, unsurprisingly, doesn’t do much for actually unlocking the door. He tries it a few more times and the longer those red lights blink at him, the closer he gets to attempting to tear the handle off. He’s pretty strong, he could probably do it. 

“Here, let me,” Harry says, voice soft as he plucks the keycard out of Louis’ hand and unlocks the door smoothly. Fuck that. 

“Yeah, okay, show off,” Louis says instead of thanking him, because that’d just be too much. He throws his bag down on the bed closest to the door and opens the front compartment, extracting his shampoo and body wash. He throws them on the bed, and peels off his jumper. He just needs a shower and a nap. That’s it. That’ll make him feel better. 

“I’m taking a shower,” he says, trying not to snap, but he’s not sure it works. “And then a nap.” 

“Okay,” Harry says slowly behind him, sounding a bit dazed, and it’s nice to know that he’s not impervious to twelve hour flights. Louis doesn’t answer, just gathers his things and walks into the bathroom and turning the hot water on full blast.

\---

The shower is hot and the pressure is relentless and just what he needs to loosen up after being crammed in a seat for so long. He’s relaxed when he steps out, wraps a towel around his waist and exits. 

Harry’s sprawled on top of the bed Louis hadn’t claimed, shoes kicked off and long legs crossed at the ankles. The line of his body is ridiculously long and lean, and there’s a reason Harry gets scored so high on his GOEs, and Louis knows more than half of it is how when he stretches out, it almost seems like he’ll never stop. He’s got his phone in his hand, reading something with a small smile on his face.

Louis’ hand tightens on the knot in his towel, forcing himself to look away as Harry’s gaze flicks up to him. He busies himself with going through his suitcase, pulling out a pair of pants and working them on under his towel. He unwinds it once he gets the pants on and drags it over the rest of his body, then puts it over his head, drying his hair. If he thinks about it, maybe he’s moving quickly because he can feel Harry’s gaze on him, and as much as he makes a career out of people watching his every move, he can’t help but feel jittery. Unsettled. 

He throws the towel at the chair by the desk, smirking when it makes it over the back of it. (Not like he’d have picked it up if it landed on the floor, but still.) He pulls out a pair of jogging bottoms and slips them on before moving his bags to the floor to settle into the bed. 

“Good shower?” Harry asks just as Louis’ nestled himself in nice and comfy. His voice is a bit low, and really, Louis isn’t the only one who ought to be taking a nap. 

“Yeah, pressure’s great,” he says amicably, because yeah, that’s an easy topic. Showers. Just as long as they don’t, like, go into detail, maybe. “Gonna sleep now, though,” he adds, before Harry can ask anything else. He glances over, sees Harry nod without looking at him, and sighs. It’s fine. They don’t have to be friends anymore. Louis has plenty of friends. 

He’d just like it, is the thing. But Harry’s made it pretty clear with his year of radio silence that he’s not into the idea. So. 

“Gonna shower,” Harry says, but his voice sounds far away, and Louis can’t see him, because his eyes are closed. He may already be halfway asleep. 

“Yeah, okay H,” he mumbles, and the next thing he knows is darkness.

\---

The schedule works out like this: two full practice days before day one, which is the men and pairs short program; day two: ladies’ and ice dance short program; day three: men and pairs free skate; day four: ladies’ and ice dance free skate; day five: the gala. 

Louis’ mum will be down to see him compete and skate in the gala, and she’ll be bringing his four younger sisters with her. He hasn’t seen them in a year, and while he loves Los Angeles and getting able to do what he loves, if he thinks about the fact that he’s missing his sisters growing up, the weight of the guilt that settles in his chest is terrifying, and absolutely not what he needs before a competition. 

So he doesn’t think about it. He just trains and sleeps for two days, adjusting to being back in England when he’s been gone so long. He’d forgotten just how cold it was. Ridiculous, really. 

“Can’t believe I left my gloves in LA,” he mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he and Liam walk to get lunch. They could’ve gotten room service, but Louis has been going a bit mad looking at the same sub-par painting of a flowers in a vase on a table that hangs on the wall right next to his bed. The bloody telly doesn’t work, and there’s another painting on the other side of the room, but Louis doesn’t want to look at it just in case Harry thinks he’s looking at him. 

Which is another thing. _Harry’s always in the fucking room._

It’s not like either of them have anywhere else to be, really, so it shouldn’t be a surprise, but Harry seems to spend all of his free time in the room. Usually when Louis gets back from practice-- or back from hanging out with Niall and Zayn and Liam-- Harry’s there, lounging on his bed with earbuds in or trying to make the telly work or out on the balcony without a jacket or, like this afternoon, stretched out on the floor, both feet on the ground and an arm in the air, the other stretched toward the floor, his head turned up to look at the hand. 

Louis’ gaze had slipped up the long line of his legs, lingered on where his hips canted up and his twisted waist and the flush over his torso. Jesus _fuck_ , this was not okay.

“Working on your flexibility, eh?” Louis had quipped once he’d, y’know, been able to speak. Harry’s head had whipped up, eyes wide in surprise before his expression had evened out into something neutral. 

“I’ve heard it’s something I could improve on,” Harry said, and the barrage of memories Louis had experienced made him want to die, a little. Harry bent half in their bunks on the bus, moaning around Louis’ cock, voice cracking around his name and sweat making his curls stick to his skin. Harry with one leg stretched over the back of a couch, the other pressed to his chest with Louis’ mouth working between his legs. Harry with his arms snaked over his head and-- No. Okay. No. Louis needs to let this go.

“Everyone’s got a weak spot,” he’d said instead, and busied himself with something, anything else he could think of. Harry hadn’t responded and Louis had left not five minutes later, needing to be anywhere except with Harry’s sweaty, contorted body. He hadn’t said a word when he left. 

“It’s not the smartest thing you’ve ever done, no,” Liam says, startling Louis out of his thoughts. What? Gloves, right. Forgetting his gloves. 

“Fuck off,” he says, giving Liam a shove with his elbow. “How’s your training going?” 

Liam nods, shrugs a bit. “It’s been better. But, you know me and Dani. Takes a bit to warm up when we get to a new place.” 

Louis frowns. “Thought you’d gotten over that,” he says, and Liam shrugs again. 

“So had I? But I dunno, Dani seems tense, and I--” Liam stops, frowning and looking sort of helpless. Louis doesn’t like it. It’s wrong. First Perrie and now Dani? There had to be some drama they were all missing.

“I’m just not really sure how to make it better,” he says quietly and Louis stops walking to wrap his arms around Liam in a hug. It seems more important than food, at the moment.

“Don’t think that’s your job, mate,” he says, giving him a squeeze. Liam relaxes into it, leaning his head on top of Louis’. “Not as her partner or as her boyfriend, yeah? I mean, you’re there for comfort and to talk, right? But I don’t know that it’s your job to like, fix whatever it is. Y’know?” 

“Guess so,” Liam says, “But still. Feels like I should, I don’t know, do something, yeah?” 

“Then talk to her about it. Just talk. Sometimes that’s all people need.” 

Liam nods and holds onto Louis for another moment before pulling away, laughing a bit in a way Louis knows means he feels awkward. It seems to pass, though, and he smiles at Louis.

“When’d you get so smart, huh?” He knocks an elbow into Louis’ shoulder.

“Rude,” he says, making a face at Liam. “I’ve always been smart, you’ve just never asked.” 

Liam looks at him for a moment, then nods. “Yeah, guess you’re right.” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Right, now that we’ve covered the fact that I’m more than just a pretty face and nice arse, can we eat? I’m starving.” 

Liam laughs, and they’re off again.

 

\---

Louis doesn’t see his family until after the short program. He knows they’re there; made sure to have someone let him know when they arrived and took their seats, because he can’t imagine looking up into the audience after hitting his end pose and not seeing them. 

He’s drawn the fourth spot in the second group, which means he’ll have a morning practice, downtime, and then a wait. He prefers performing near the end-- not dead last, because there’s absolutely nothing worse, thanks-- but maybe third from last. It’s a spot he’s done particularly well in, previously. 

There’s sixteen men competing at the senior level, so he’s in the middle of the second group and yeah, that’s good. It is, really. Harry’s drawn sixth in the second group, and maybe that’s good too. Louis has a chance to stake his claim on the ice and make Harry fight to make it his. Yeah. Excellent. 

The energy in the rink is always insane the first day of competition. It’s the combination of the young men excited to prove they can compete at the senior level and the apprehension of those more seasoned who are more worried about fucking up. Add in the audience, the judges, the press, and it’s all a bit chaotic. It always takes Louis a bit to calm down. Before his accident, he made it a point to deflect; to distract himself from his nerves by being the most obnoxious person in the room. He’d learned, though, that serious competitors really didn’t like that and would whisper the word _sabotage_ when his back was turned. So. He focused on taking it out physically: pilates and yoga and fucking meditation, if he could. It helped a bit, but if he can, he avoids watching the others skate. Not having anyone to compare himself to helps the most, probably.

Niall’s in the first group, and he’s the only one Louis can stand to watch. Not because he thinks they’re incomparable, but because they train together, so Louis’ familiar with him. Familiar with the way he jumps and powers through his footwork with a smile on his face. Hell, Niall can fall on his face, get up with a smile and finish his program with a bloody nose and the judges would still love him. It’s kind of amazing, really. He tends to finish sixth to Louis’ fourth place finishes on the international circuit, silver to Louis’ gold at nationals. They’re a bit of a set, and it’s comforting, in a way, knowing if Niall does well, then he will too. 

And Niall does do well. He scores an 86.45, a personal best, and gets put into first place. He’s still there by the time Louis’ group is called for their warm up, and still there by the time Stan Thomas scores his 84.87 and Louis sets his skates on the ice for the first time in almost an hour. 

Trying to describe what it’s like to skate is almost impossible for Louis. He’ll give a generic answer if he’s asked in interviews, but only because the real one makes him feel a bit too raw to tell some random woman from a news station. Too exposed. Because skating feels like flying, like freedom, like the warmth of the sun on his shoulders and face the first time he saw the Pacific Ocean, like swell of joy in his chest the first time his mum had ever seen him skate and win and hugged him with tears in her eyes. It’s a hum of energy that runs through him, like if he hits the ice just right with his blade, sparks would fly up instead of chips of ice. It’s overwhelming and a bit dumb, but it’s everything. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

“You keep your head,” Simon murmurs to him, hands resting on the edge of the mat covering the boards. Louis sets his on top of it, spreading his fingers and looking at them while he listens. Any other coach, and he’d want the physical contact. This is enough, with Simon. “You keep your head, don’t think too much and let your body do the work. You know this program, Louis. You could do it in your sleep.” 

Louis nods once, sharp, and lets out a breath. Simon’s right. He inhales on a five count and exhales, looks up at Simon, who looks him right in the eye for a moment before nodding. It feels like approval. A blessing. Louis smiles, feels the tension in his shoulders disappear and he turns, skates to the middle of the ice and takes his starting pose. 

\---

He fucking nails it. 

He can feel it before he even hits the end pose, a giant smile on his face as he pulls out of his final spin, music ending and his hand in the air. He’d hit his landings perfectly, no under-rotating, no double-footing, no stumbles at all. Clean, perfectly clean and nearly flawless, he’s willing to bet. His head falls back and so does his arm, eyes closing briefly before raising it again to punch the air. Fuck _yes_ , that’s what he’s been needing to do all season and to do it here, well, it’s just. Good. It’s really, really good. 

He finds his mum and sisters in the stands, blows them a kiss and waves, then bows to the rest of them before skating off to the sides, where Simon’s waiting for him with a _smile._ A real, honest-to-God smile, and Louis thinks he might fucking faint. 

“Do it again tomorrow,” Simon says, his hand warm on Louis’ shoulder, “and you’ll have that third gold.” 

Louis laughs, puts his guards on and grabs a teddy bear from someone’s hands before heading to the kiss and cry. The thing is, he knows Simon’s right, but he just can’t think about it like that. Not right now. Not before he’s even gotten this score. 

There’s a few nerve-wracking minutes while it’s calculated, Louis humming along to Beyonce and waving into the camera until the voice over the loud speaker says, “May I have the scores please?” 

It flashes on the screen in front of him, read out over the speaker for everyone to hear, and Louis head falls into his hands. 

97.31. 

It’s a personal best, certainly enough to take first place and stay there comfortably and Louis has to hide his face until he can gasp in a breath, keep himself from crying. Later, later, he can weep with joy later, maybe in the shower where no one will hear him. It’ll probably be the highest score of the whole day, and the thought makes him exhale a shaky breath.

He feels hands on his back and he looks up, smiling, waving more and getting up to go back into the locker room. He sits in one of the chairs in the back corridor, a bit dazed as people come up to congratulate him. It’s not new, but it never gets old, either. He’ll ride this high the rest of the day, definitely. 

Niall slides into the seat next to him, giving him a tight hug and kiss on the head. “Knew you could do it,” he mutters into Louis’ ear, and Louis buries his face into Niall’s hair, laughing. 

And, look, he knows it’s not the highest score ever. He knows that, but the thing about it is that he’s from a country that hasn’t dominated in this field in a long time. (Nearly forty years, if you can even count one man winning a gold at World’s “dominating”.) The fact that he competes on the international circuit and doesn’t make an arse of himself is a huge deal. He’s no Plushenko or Boitano or Hamilton, but he’s not trying to be. A top five finish at the World Championships would probably be enough. He skates because he likes it, and because he’s good at it and he’s lucky enough to have the opportunity. 

Louis hasn’t really been paying attention to the competition but it’s drawn back when he hears Harry’s name, and he knows he shouldn’t watch, but-- well, it just-- it’s too late to leave now? 

Harry’s the same as Louis remembers-- smooth and graceful, aggressive when he needs to be and genuinely entertaining to watch, like Niall. He doesn’t hide much when he skates; he’s not like Louis, who creates a character and embodies it for the two and a half or four and a half minutes that he’s on the ice. Harry’s just himself, and it’s brave and ridiculous, and Louis hates that he’s so easily drawn in, captivated by Schubert’s “Rosamunde” and Harry’s clean lines. He stumbles a little on his triple toe, but still manages the combination, and Louis can tell it’ll be a big score. 

It is. 94.65, and another personal best. Louis doesn’t let it affect him. He still has nearly a three point lead, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're interested in being a beta or just wanna talk, [I'm right here on tumblr](http://jessimond.tumblr.com). thanks!


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few things: 
> 
> 1) many, MANY thanks to [kiy](http://panoplourry.tumblr.com) for giving this a look over! she is wonderful and I appreciate her greatly. that said, any remaining mistakes are mine!  
> 2) idk if I mentioned before, but this is definitely going to be a slow build, so, sorry? (not sorry)  
> 3) I've updated the chapter count AGAIN because I had to split it apart. the word count's getting away from me, ha.  
> 4) I am no longer in need of a beta, and thanks to everyone who offered <3  
> 5) this is all fake and for fun. please don't show it to anyone remotely connected to the band or figure skaters thank you <3  
> 5) ENJOY

Louis’ skating second to last for the free skate. It’s not as bad as dead last, but Harry’s skating right after him and the amount of pressure Louis feels to have a repeat performance makes him want to crawl out of his skin and hide in the walls or something. He needs a distraction. 

He spends that night with his family-- goes to dinner with his mum and sisters, listens to them talk about everything he’s missed. The twins have started school and Lottie, the second eldest, is about to take her GCSEs and Louis can barely breathe with how much he misses them. When he’d started skating at the senior level, things at home had kind of gone to shit, and the year he turned eighteen, the year of his accident and the year he moved to LA to train with Simon, his parents had divorced. He knows it’s been difficult for them, but that was the whole reason he’d gone, because a good coaching team meant medals, medals meant money and sponsorships and that meant he could help out his mum until she regained her footing. 

There are days, though, moments like this one where Louis would easily give it all up just to be able to wake up to his mum’s smile peeking in his door. 

The moments are short-lived, though, because he knows within a week he’d be groaning about being bored and probably setting small fires in the neighborhood just to get rid of the itching in his bones. It’s better this way, he knows, but sometimes he just wishes it were different. 

“You were wonderful tonight, love,” his mum tells him as they walk back to the hotel. They’re all staying in the same one, because it’s easier that way, and Louis’ paying for them and wants them close. 

He smiles and slips an arm around her waist. “Thanks,” he says, leaning his head on her shoulder. “Guess all those extra shifts paid off, yeah?” 

“Louis,” her voice is soft, and she tightens an arm around his shoulders. “They were worth it from the very beginning. It made you happy. Even if you hadn’t been successful, you were happy, and that’s enough for me.” 

He smiles against the fabric of her coat, blinking a few times, because he’s a grown man, he’s not going to cry in the middle of the street with his head on his mother’s shoulder. 

“Okay,” he says, muffled, but she kisses his head like she knows anyhow.

\---

After depositing his mum and sisters in their room, Louis makes his way up to his own, preparing himself for the near certainty that Harry will be there. 

He isn’t, though. Louis walks into a dark room, a frown creasing his forehead. It’s not-- he’s not like, _worried_ or anything, because Harry’s grown and can take care of himself. Louis isn’t his keeper. It’d just have been nice, is all, to have some warning, or something. And if Harry’s family was here, wouldn’t he have mentioned it? 

Or maybe Louis should’ve just assumed. He really doesn’t know. 

He settles for dumping his things on the floor and stripping down to his underwear to change into pajama bottoms. He can take a shower tomorrow; that way his hair will cooperate better. He bends over his suitcase, back to the door, not bothering to pick the thing up because it’ll just end up on the floor again, and what’s the point, really? 

He’s in the middle of pulling out his entire wardrobe-- seriously, where are his pajamas, this isn’t fucking funny-- when the door clicks behind him, squeaks open. He freezes. 

_Well, at least I’m not completely nude,_ he thinks, spotting the familiar plaid and pulling it out with a triumphant noise. He straightens up, turns around, waving the bottoms in his hand like they’re the flag and he’s just won an Olympic medal. 

“Thought I’d left them at home,” he says dumbly, because Harry’s just standing there, staring, and it’s making him fucking nervous. 

There’s a long moment where neither of them says anything, and it stretches between them like over-chewed gum, thin and crackly and barely held together. 

Louis phone beeps and he jumps, looking around for it. He hears the door close, followed by Harry’s muffled footsteps across the carpet. 

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, pajamas still clutched in one hand as he digs through the discarded clothes for his phone. “I um, had a bit of trouble. Finding my pajamas.” 

“You said,” Harry answers, tone a bit uneasy but also pretty unreadable, so Louis glances up at his face, relaxes when he sees the slight smile. 

“Right,” Louis says, finally finding his jeans from dinner and digging through the pockets. It’s just Liam, though, so he throws it on the bed and puts the pajamas on. 

“You know,” Harry says, slow and easy from the bed next to him and Louis can practically hear the smile, “it might be a bit easier for you to find your shit if you packed with any kind of organization system.” 

Louis looks up, eyes widening. He lets the elastic snap around his waist as he gets the bottoms on, and he stares. 

“You always were a bit crap at packing,” Harry continues, cheek dimpling up and oh, that is so fucking unfair. 

“Well, fuck you too, then,” Louis says without much bite, just shock, mostly, and Harry laughs. It’s seriously unfair of Harry to do this, for him to just ignore Louis and treat him like he doesn’t matter and just ignore the fact that they were best fucking friends, and-- and fuck buddies or whatever anyone wants to call it. Harry can’t just ignore him and their past and then bring it up to tease him. 

Louis’s chest feels a bit tight about it all. He gathers his clothes and stuffs them back into his suitcase without folding them, partly because he knows it’ll annoy Harry and partly because it’s apparently expected of him. Whatever. He grabs his phone and settles between his sheets to answer Liam’s text. 

“You were good tonight,” Harry says a moment later, voice deep and full of something that Louis can’t and doesn’t want to identify. He looks up from the message (a simple _r we the g8st or r we the GR8ST?????????_ that makes Louis roll his eyes) to blink at Harry, who’s looking at him with wide eyes. 

“I always am,” he responds, because he doesn’t quite know what to do with the sincerity. Never has. 

Harry’s forehead creases, and he sighs. “Yeah, I guess you are,” he says, and ugh, okay, Louis didn’t mean to make him sound, like, dejected. 

“Hey, look, I’m-- I didn’t mean it like that,” Louis says, turning over in the bed to look at him. “Thank you, all right? You did well too.” 

Harry snorts, but turns toward him too, and Louis wishes, suddenly, fiercely, that they were in the same bed, legs tangled and one of Harry’s large hands spanning over his back. He represses a shudder at the thought, but only just. 

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t mean it,” Harry says, but he sounds less like a kicked puppy and more like a hopeful one, maybe. If puppies can be hopeful. 

“I do mean it, though.” Louis isn’t sure why he says it. He does mean it, yeah, and Harry deserves to know, but it’s-- it seems a bit dangerous. A bit too close to things friends say to each other. And they’re not friends. “I do mean it, Harry. You were brilliant. You always have been.” 

Harry only smiles at him, wide and open, and Louis feels the distance between them like an ache in his chest. He wants to climb out of the bed and kiss him, press his body back into the mattress and let the feel of his heartbeat lull him to sleep. 

Instead, Louis turns away, settles onto his back and closes his eyes. He counts his breaths until he’s on the precipice of sleep, and he thinks he hears something from the other bed. A rustle of fabric, maybe. Probably Harry changing for bed.

“So have you, Lou,” he hears, but he’s forgotten by the time he wakes.

\---

Harry beats him. 

It’s not as if it’s undeserved-- Louis stumbled coming out of a jump on a deep rut in the ice and Harry lands his fucking quad for the first time all season, and it’s close, it really is, but in the end Louis only had about a three point lead and as consistent as he is, it’s a competition. A challenge. One that he’d lost. 

And he’s not like, getting melancholy about it. He has a silver medal, for God’s sake, and there’s still a chance Britain will send him to Worlds. 

Though, probably not. 

He’s a bit disappointed, (more than a bit, but who’s counting) but not-- it’s just-- He’s not disappointed in himself or in his performance. Yeah, it was a bit shit when he stumbled on his jump, but things like that happen, and he’d tried his best. He really had. And obviously Harry had as well, and there’s no use thinking about the fact that if they were almost any other country, he and Harry would both be going to Worlds, instead of just one of them. 

So, he doesn’t. He stands on the podium, smiles, waves, blows kisses to his mum and to the cameras and resolves to give the best performance of his fucking life in the gala in two days. 

After a bit of celebration, of course.

\---

Louis is very, very drunk. 

This is stupid for two reasons. One: Simon is going to know tomorrow that he basically drank his weight in cocktails just by glancing at him and probably flay him alive. Two: he just challenged Harry Styles to a handstand contest. 

To be fair, Harry’s pretty smashed, too-- or, was definitely smashed enough to accept the challenge, and considering the fact that Louis was fairly certain that they hated each other there’s not really another explanation. Or, maybe they don’t hate each other, but it’s definitely a bit like walking on glass or egg yolks or sneaking back up the stairs after having sex for the first time. Careful. Deliberate. Not entirely gentle but just safe, maybe. Right.

They both must be pretty drunk, is the point. And yet, the moment Louis had shoved Harry’s shoulder-- so high up, how is his shoulder _so high up_ \-- the younger boy’s attention had snapped to him, listening so intently that Louis hadn’t even actually remembered that he’d wanted to congratulate him, and instead had said: 

“I bet I can stay in a handstand longer than you can.” 

Why? Why had he said that? He still has no bloody idea, but Harry’s eyes had widened and then narrowed sharply, and:

“I really doubt that.” 

Louis had lofted a brow, though it’d taken effort. Heavy. His face felt a bit heavy. “You’ll never know unless you prove it,” he’d said with a shrug and Harry had nodded, a sharp motion that made Louis dizzy to watch.

“You’re on.” 

They’d been in the hotel bar-- ever the picture of discretion, Team Simon was, getting smashed in the most public space of the whole hotel-- and Niall, who’d been next to Harry when Louis shoved his shoulder, decided that maybe it was a bit much to do a (drunk) handstand contest in the middle of the bloody hotel bar. Bless him, really, and his ridiculous inability to get wasted like Louis. And his level head. 

“S’not fair.” Louis mumbles it into Niall’s shoulder as they ride the elevator up to their floor. Whines, really, but that’s not important. It’s happening. Louis is gonna do a handstand and he’s gonna beat Styles. It’s gonna be awesome. 

“What’s that, mate?” He feels Niall’s arm slip around his waist. Louis paws at it. He’s not going to fall down. He’s fine. His mind’s just a little fuzzy, and he’s starting to get sleepy, but no, he’ll be fine.

“How you don’t get drunk,” he clarifies, and Niall snorts. 

“Irish,” he says, and the doors ding open to show Harry, who’s face flashes from, oh god, Louis doesn’t know, neutral, maybe? To something harsher, like, cross. Upset? But no, why would he be upset? He just won a gold fucking medal and kicked Louis down a step on the podium. If their roles were reversed, Louis would be doing nothing but gloating. But Harry’s not really like Louis, in that respect. Huh. Whatever, Louis’ no good at this, especially not through a haze of alcohol. This is such a terrible fucking idea. 

“You sure this is a good idea?” Hey, that’s, oh! That’s Zayn! Zayn, who’s standing with Perrie by the wall, and he doesn’t look nearly as drunk as Louis feels. Bastards. (And Louis will have to remember to ask Zayn about Perrie and why she was upset because that’s important, he knows. Maybe. He won’t remember.)

“I’m really not,” Louis replies, grins, and then turns to Harry. 

“You ready?” Harry’s forehead twitches a bit and smooths out, and he nods. 

“Always ready for you, Tomlinson,” he says, which makes Louis snort, because that’s ridiculously untrue, even though one of them just dethroned the other as the national champion, not that Louis’ bitter about it. Silver’s a perfectly acceptable medal. And metal, for that matter. 

Right. 

“I doubt it,” Louis says, going for lofty, but probably misses. He raises his arms above his head, sees Harry do the same in his periphery, and mutters, “This is a bloody awful idea,” before tipping forward, resting his weight on his hands and arms, lifting his legs. 

It’s not difficult, really, because he’s been doing handstands since before he was a skater. He’s a little bit better at them now, actually, but his limbs feel heavier than normal from the alcohol, and the blood rushing to his head really isn’t helping anything, and yeah, this was a bad idea. 

But he’s not going to just give up. It’s a challenge, and he can see Harry’s arms starting to shake next to him, and Louis would trash talk him if he thought he could do it without vomiting. As it is, he manages a smirk, points his toes a little more and sighs. 

Which is, of course, when Harry’s arms give out and he goes crashing into the ground with a curse, his long legs flailing ridiculously, and it all happens so fast that Louis can’t pull out of his own to avoid what really, now, seems like the inevitable collision of their limbs. Harry’s knee digs into Louis’ ribs and knocks him sideways, and he _knows_ how to fall out of a handstand without hurting himself, he really does, but he can’t remember how, too shocked at the pain in his side. 

So, he goes over, crumpling onto the carpet with a loud _thud!_ that he’s sure everyone along the corridor’s heard. He lays there a moment, face pressed into the carpet, breathing through the stabs of pain in his ribs until they dissipate. He can hear Niall cackling at them, the traitor, and Perrie’s giggling. 

Yeah, okay, he’s sure if he’d been watching it would’ve been fucking hilarious. Still. A little solidarity would be nice.

He rolls onto his back, hisses at an unexpected pain in his ankle and thinks, _oh fuck, Simon will kill me if I can’t skate in the fucking gala_. He feels a hand on his arm, and when he turns his head, he sees Zayn crouched, mouth in a line that means he’s trying not to laugh and Louis glares. 

“Y’alright, mate?” Zayn asks, voice wavering a bit and Louis reaches out to pinch him. 

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” he says, and sits up to demonstrate, spreading his arms wide. “See?” 

Zayn nods and stands, offering a hand, which Louis takes, because he still feels a bit wobbly, and Zayn offering to help someone up who isn’t Perrie is like, god, probably like Simon telling someone he’s proud of them. It doesn’t happen often, is the point, and Louis isn’t one to take things for granted. Gift horses and all that. 

He moves to stand, but the second he puts weight on the ankle that twinged, it blooms into actual, sharp pain that makes him hiss and stumble. He’s steadied by large hands on his waist, a long, lean body against his back and _fuck_ , how does he even still remember what Harry’s body feels like in relation to his own? Seems unfair, that. 

“Alright?” Harry’s voice is low, just at his ear, and Louis’ breath catches in his chest. 

“Fine,” he says, squeezing Zayn’s hand, trying to make contact to say _get him the fuck off me_ , but Zayn seems unphased about it, and instead examines both of them with a bit of a smile on his face. 

“Just, my ankle,” Louis says, and Zayn, thank fucking christ, takes his arm and loops it around his shoulders. Harry’s hands fall away easily enough, and Niall comes to his other side, and Louis takes the weight off his hurt ankle and hobbles toward his room. 

His fucking hotel room that he has to share with Harry. 

Louis really, really hates his life.

\---

Zayn and Niall deposit him on his bed, and Zayn gives him a kiss on the head before he leaves, and a muttered, “We’ll talk later,” before he’s gone. Niall stays at Louis’ insistence, checking his ankle and sliding into the bed with him for a cuddle that Louis didn’t even have to ask for. 

“You want to talk about it?” Niall asks, hand carding through Louis’ hair. The thing about pain is that it’s pretty sobering, for Louis. Lots of people don’t feel it, or whatever and get a bit of an adrenaline rush, but it’s the opposite for him. It’s like a focal point, an anchor for Louis to cling to to keep him from drifting too far in the current. 

Okay, maybe still a little bit drunk. 

“Talk about what?” Louis responds, more of a sigh than a snap, and Niall takes a deep breath. 

“About whatever it is that’s going on between you and Harry.” 

And, fuck, god, _no_ , Louis doesn’t want to talk about it because he’s not even sure what it is. 

“Not much to tell,” Louis says delicately, picking at a thread on Niall’s jumper. “Made a bit of an arse of myself on his first day. He doesn’t seem too interested in being anything other than like, acquaintances.” He shrugs, sighs. “Probably rivals, now, what with his win. You know.” 

Niall nods, and doesn’t say anything for awhile, not until Louis’ eyes start to droop closed, heavy with sleep. 

“For what it’s worth,” Niall says, voice distant, and Louis can barely hear him, “it’d probably be different if you just talked to him about it.” 

_Ha,_ Louis thinks, _Fat chance._ And then he’s pulled under. 

\---

He’s woken by a shift in the bed, murmured voices beside him but when he opens his eyes, he’s blinded by the lamp, and seriously, they left that on? Seems a bit rude. 

“You can stay, if you’d like,” someone’s saying, and Louis blinks a few times until the bright spots disappear and he can see Niall and Harry huddled together. 

“Nah, best if I go back to my room,” Niall’s saying with a wave. “Don’t want to get caught, yeah?” 

“I won’t--um, I wouldn’t like, tell on you,” Harry says, and Louis snorts, because _no._ He may be drunk and he may be half-asleep, but he knows what Harry’s trying to imply.

“We’re not fucking,” he says, sitting up on the bed, satisfied with the way Harry jumps and turns to look at him. “Me and Niall,” he clarifies. “We’re not fucking. Not that I wouldn’t, babe, you know,” he glances at Niall, who’s grinning, and winks at him, “you’re right fit. But I don’t fuck straight boys, not anymore.” 

Niall laughs, climbs back onto the bed to press a smacking kiss to the side of Louis’ head, and leaves with a wave. Louis can hear him laughing all the way down the corridor. Louis leans back down on his bed, letting out a sigh. 

“Good job tonight,” he says, watching as Harry moves about the room, shedding clothes and replacing them with others. He’s wearing those stupid jeans again, and Louis doesn’t look away as he turns his back and peels them off. They’re replaced with a loose pair of joggers, which Louis thinks must be for his benefit, because Harry never used to wear anything to bed. 

People can change, though. Apparently. 

“What, like with the handstands?” Harry says, and his voice has an edge to it that makes Louis roll his eyes, though he’s sure it was meant to do more. 

“No, like, with your free skate?” Louis says in an imitation of Harry’s tone. “Christ, Styles, learn to take a fucking compliment.” 

Harry hesitates, bites his bottom lip and lets it slide out, blooming red. Fuck. “You don’t really make it a habit to compliment me,” he says, but there’s no bite to it, no lingering resentment. That’s nice. “But, thanks. And I’m sorry.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “What, for winning? Don’t be. I’ll beat you next year,” he says with a shrug, and Harry smirks at him. 

“Nah, for your ankle,” he says, nodding toward it. “You think it’ll be alright?” 

Louis shrugs again, tries moving it, and it still twinges a bit, but it’s not as bad. He probably still won’t be able to skate in the gala, but it’s not the end of the world. Simon will probably make him take an ice bath every day for two weeks straight, but, still. 

“Been through worse,” he says, and he sees the way Harry nods, and his gaze catches on Louis’ knee before flitting up to his face. 

“Guess you have,” he says, and Louis looks away. 

“Turn off the fucking light, yeah? Some of us want to sleep.”

\---

“Louis, I’m incredibly disappointed in you.” 

Simon’s stood across from where he’s sitting in the rink, trainer next to him, examining his ankle and wrapping it up. He’d woken with almost no pain, and decided to go down and just, see if he could. 

He’d barely made it out of the locker room in his skates before it started smarting again, which is when Simon found him, practically limping. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he _is._ He feels like he’s let the whole bloody team down, but he’s not really sure why. It’s just a gala skate. It’s not a big deal. 

“Wasn’t thinking, I guess,” he says, frowning. 

“No, it’s pretty clear you weren’t.” There’s a pause, and Louis looks away from Simon, then back. Simon’s arms fall out of their cross, and he sighs. 

“You know I’m not disappointed about the injury, right? Or how you got it. I’m disappointed that you thought you had to hide it. And that you thought skating on it anyway would be a good idea.” 

Christ, getting a bollocking from Simon is like being lectured by a parent. 

“To be fair, I didn’t actually skate on it,” he offers, and Simon rolls his eyes. 

“Take your skates off and go back to your room. You’re on injury rest.” 

Louis sighs, nods, and does as he’s told. There’s no use in arguing with Simon, and he knows an injury like this, untreated, could legitimately ruin his career. 

\---

One of the good things about fucking up his ankle a bit and losing his title as National Champion is the fact that Louis is free to eat whatever the fuck he likes. 

Well, for a few days, at least, and then he’s got to start practicing his exhibition skates, and he’ll be on a modified diet again. Not as bad as during the season, but a diet nonetheless. 

Usually, he, Niall, Zayn and Liam get together and make a bit of a party out of it. They order a pizza (or five) and sit around Louis’ flat playing video games and watching movies. Or reality television. It’s nice. It’s tradition. That always happens after Worlds, though. Louis doesn’t know what he’s going to do with his spare time. Maybe he’ll take a vacation. Or sleep. Sleeping’s nice. 

The plane ride back to LA is much more tolerable than the first. Even those who won and are going to Worlds’-- Harry, Jade, Liam and Dani, and Zayn and Perrie, to be exact-- are in good moods, and much less nervous, probably because Worlds’ is about a month away still. Louis can only imagine Zayn will be a wreck by the time he actually has to leave and fly to Japan, but, they don’t have to think about that now. They shouldn’t, really. There’s no point. 

Whatever happened with the couples seems to have blown over, (which doesn’t mean Louis won’t pry details out of them later) which is nice, but leaves Louis sitting in a row with a sleeping Niall next to the window and an empty seat between them. He supposes he could slide over to the middle seat, but then there’d be too much opportunity for some weird rando to sit down next to them and Louis does not want to spend twelve hours with someone who stinks of garlic or something. 

He doesn’t have to think about it for too long, though, because a long, lanky body stops next to him, and Louis is so taken aback by the smell of Harry’s bodywash-- and it’s only been a few hours since they were stuck in close quarters, Louis hadn’t even realized he actively knew what Harry’s bodywash smelled like, christ-- that he jumps a bit. Harry smiles and takes it as an invitation to shove his body between Louis’ legs and the seat in front of him, and then plop down in the middle.

“All right?” Harry asks, raising his eyebrow and Louis nods. Well. Not like he can say no now.

“Fine, yeah. You excited about Worlds?”

“Guess so,” Harry shrugs. “Trying not to think about it, if I’m honest.” 

“I get it,” Louis says, nodding, and then before he thinks too hard about it, “But I’m sure you’ll be great, yeah? Just do what you did here, you’ll medal.”

Harry’s answering smile is like the first burst of sunlight through the clouds: blinding and warm and absolutely overwhelming. Louis looks away to avoid being blinded. 

They fall into a companionable sort of silence after that. Louis takes out his iPod and leans back, tapping out rhythms to his exhibition songs on the plastic arm rest. He starts humming along, visualising his choreography and getting lost in it for a moment before he feels someone brush his arm. 

Right, he’s not alone. 

He opens his eyes, but it’s just Harry, still smiling at him like he’s done something extraordinary, and Louis is a big believer in self-love, but he’s fairly certain his singing voice is crap, and Harry can’t be in his right mind if that’s why he’s smiling. He tugs his earbuds out of his ear, tries to paint a sheepish expression on his face.

“Sorry, was I loud?” 

Harry shakes his head. “No, you’re fine, I just--” He hesitates a moment, brow creasing briefly before it smooths out.

“I’d forgotten you do that,” he says, voice barely audible over the hum of the plane around them, the chatter of the rest of their team and the other people flying. Louis doesn’t hear them, though, and it’s the strangest thing. It’s like his hearing’s gone a bit static, but he can still hear Harry just fine, like a focused, clear point. Like he’s tuned in specifically to his voice. 

Louis remembers, is the thing. He remembers countless plane rides, bus rides, movie nights in hotels with Harry by his side as he tapped and hummed and practiced without physically practicing. He remembers how it’d drive Harry mad when his humming would get too loud, how he was certain the best way to get Louis to shut up was to kiss him quiet. He remembers all of that because he’s not the one who forgot, and Harry-- Well. Harry. 

“So you’re done pretending, then?” Louis tries to keep his tone even, but he can tell it still takes Harry off-guard. His face twists unpleasantly for a moment and Louis snorts. Just like an open fucking book. 

“Who’s pretending?” Harry sounds genuinely confused, and maybe a bit angry, judging by the hard edge in his voice.

“You are,” Louis says patiently, patronizingly, with just a hint of a smile. He hadn’t wanted to have this conversation at all, especially not on a crowded plane, but he’s brought it upon himself. He may as well finish it in true Tomlinson style. 

“Done pretending that we didn’t spend two summers fucking each other and done pretending that you didn’t just drop off the face of the earth a year and a half ago.” He pauses, looks at Harry evenly, even though he sort of wants to tear his stupid green eyes out of their sockets. “Just to clarify.”

Harry’s face does a lot of very interesting things in quick succession. First, it pales, color draining, only to rush back to his cheeks. His mouth twists into a frown and his brows draw together in the middle of his forehead. He looks confused, guilty, upset. Hurt. Louis keeps smiling at him. 

The silence between them feels heavy, tense, like a thick rubber band being pulled to its breaking point and holding. Louis lets it sit, fester, bubble up as the color returns to the rest of Harry’s face, flushing up from his neck and all the way to his ears. Probably all the way to his scalp. 

Louis could cackle with joy, if he thought it’d do any good. 

“It’s not like you tried to call either,” Harry says finally, and Louis does actually laugh at that, harsh and loud, making a woman in the row in front of them turn and glare. Louis ignores her. 

“One, that’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard, and you too,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Two, I _did._ I called you once a week, Harry, long fucking distance. I texed more than that. You were the one who didn’t answer. _You’re_ the one who kept rejecting my calls.” He stops and glances over Harry’s shoulder at Niall, who’s just a bit too still for someone who’s supposed to be sleeping. Fucking Niall. 

“I wasn’t trying to,” Harry says, and Louis shakes his head. 

“No, there’s only so much a person can take, you know? Before they start to get it. And I got it, Harry, all right? You made it perfectly fucking clear that you weren’t interested in continuing, or being friends or whatever.” 

“It really wasn’t like that at all, Louis.” 

“Oh really?” Louis says it mildly, like he’s amused, like this conversation is funny which in itself is funny because this conversation fucking _sucks._ “What was it like, then?” 

Harry doesn’t answer and Louis stares at him, hard, because he deserves at least some kind of explanation. God, anything except the fucking empty silence that’s been hollowing away at the back of his mind for nearly two fucking years. 

Harry takes a breath, opens his mouth and Louis almost leans forward in anticipation. Nothing happens though, of course. Harry just snaps his mouth back shut and looks away. Louis snorts, shakes his head and tries very hard not to start laughing, because he’s sure if he did he wouldn’t stop until he was sobbing. That’s not a story Louis needs in the British rags tomorrow. One breakdown’s enough, thanks. 

“Thought so,” he says, looking away. He feels Harry’s gaze snap back to him, sees Harry’s hand clench on his thigh as Louis pretends to be looking at his iPod. Harry clears his throat but Louis doesn’t turn his head. 

“I’ve got this-- friend, Nick,” Harry says, slow and careful and Louis feels his jaw tighten, but he doesn’t turn. He won’t. 

“He, um. He’s a radio DJ,” he continues, and fuck, Louis wishes he would get to the point, which he’s sure is the eventual confession that they’re dating or fucking around or whatever it is that Harry does with the people that want him. Harry’s paused, though, and Louis can’t take it, so he looks over, waves a hand. Any explanation is better than no explanation, right? 

( _No,_ Louis thinks, _No it’s really fucking not._ )

He snaps, “Are you going to finish this story any time this century, Styles?” and is rewarded with a slight flinch from Harry. Good. 

“I’m trying,” he says, clearly frustrated, running a hand through his curls and tugging on them. (The pang of jealousy that Louis feels at that is not entirely rational, he knows, so he ignores it.) 

“I’m _trying,_ but it’s just-- It sounds so stupid if I say it outloud.” 

_That probably means it is stupid, you wanker,_ Louis wants to say, but raises his eyebrows instead. 

Harry sighs, seems to deflate a bit. “He plays this stupid game, ‘Call or Delete’? And it’s like, you go through your contacts without looking and stop when the other person tells you. Whoever you land on, you’ve got to call them and like, make up a prank? Or you’ve got to delete their number.” 

Louis just fucking looks at him. “The _point,_ Harry.”

“Okay! Okay. I was just-- It’s-- We were like, hanging out?” Harry’s face twists like he’s not actually sure of that. Maybe he’s just not sure of the phrasing. It’s a bit insulting, really, because it’s not as if Louis would throw a fit if Harry told him they’d been fucking. Well, he wouldn’t throw a fit in public, at least. 

“Okay,” Louis parrots slowly. 

“Right, and we were um, kind of drunk. And Nick thought it’d be funny, and it usually is, but-- I landed um, on your name, in my contacts. And I just--” Harry stops, takes a breath and looks away. When he looks back, the line of his mouth trembles a bit. 

“I couldn’t just like-- We hadn’t spoken in _months_ , Louis. I couldn’t just call you and like, fuck, I don’t know, ask you for car buying advice or whatever stupid thing Nick would’ve thought up. I thought-- I thought it’d just make it worse.” 

“So you deleted me,” Louis says, and his voice feels a bit raw coming out of his throat. It must sound it, too, because Harry’s face doesn’t exactly crumple, but it’s a near thing. 

“You’re right,” Louis says, clearing his throat. “You’re right; that’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry says in a rush, reaches out to maybe touch Louis’ shoulder, but Louis flinches away. He can’t handle that, not right now. “Louis, please. I’m-- I know it was stupid, but I just-- I’m sorry. I’m just sorry.” 

Any other person and Louis would forgive them. He’d let it go and maybe have a cuddle with them and things would be fine. But it’s _Harry,_ and it’s not that he doesn’t deserve to be forgiven, it’s just that Louis isn’t sure he can. It hadn’t been a full explanation, is the thing. It’s not enough. 

“Whatever,” Louis says, picking up his earbuds and stuffing them back into his ear. He leans back against his seat, chooses the loudest music he can and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST THOUGHT I'D MENTION, the drunk handstand contest definitely is a thing that happened in johnny weir's book (though not exactly the same way) and I couldn't pass up the opportunity. 
> 
> thanks for reading! [come say hi](http://jessimond.tumblr.com) if you want!


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! a few things:
> 
> 1) big BIG big thanks to kiy and katie for looking over this chapter for me-- their insight was super valuable. that said, remaining mistakes are mine
> 
> 2) I did a tiny bit of retconning. (if moffat can do it, so can I!) Before, the implication was that Harry and Louis stopped speaking after Louis injured himself. Now, Louis and Harry met AFTER Louis' injury and his move to LA with Cowell. sorry for the confusion! 
> 
> 3) I'm gonna start posting once a week, hopefully on wed/thurs. 
> 
> 4) this chapter is super long, and I'd say sorry, but I know you all love that. 
> 
> 5) THANKS FOR READING AND ENJOY! (and also this is all fake and for fun, please don't show anyone related to the band or professional figure skaters thank you)

Louis must doze off, because the next thing he knows is that he’s being jostled awake. He groans, opens his eyes and immediately regrets it when what he gets is a face full of Harry’s crotch. 

“Jesus, Styles,” he says, scooting up in his seat and turning to let him through. “You could’ve fucking woken me, I would’ve gotten up.” 

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, and Louis sighs, watching him speed-walk down the aisle toward the bathroom. Louis looks away, toward the window, but finds Niall there instead, very awake and looking very cross. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Niall says, and Louis sighs again. Will he have no peace? Apparently not. 

“You heard all that, then?” He doesn’t clarify, knows Niall will get it. Knows Niall had been pretending to be asleep the whole time. Arsehole. 

“Bit hard not to,” Niall answers, and yeah, Louis supposes it had been. 

“Can we not do this right now?” 

“No, we’re doing this, you’re going to tell me what the fuck you were thinking after that poor boy fucking poured his heart out to you--” 

“It wasn’t an explanation,” Louis hisses, interrupting what he’s sure was going to be an impressive lecture. Louis doesn’t need it. “He said we hadn’t been speaking for months when he deleted my number, Niall. You don’t fucking understand. It was like-- It was like almost two years of constant contact, even during the season and then fucking nothing. Just-- nothing. Complete radio silence.” 

Niall blinks, looks a bit taken aback and Louis continues, “Like, whatever, his friend wanted him to prank call me and he couldn’t. I get that. That’s fine, it’s-- I’m glad, that he didn’t. He’s right. It would’ve made it worse, but it also would have been _something._ I maybe would’ve fucking gotten over it if I’d just-- if he’d just tell me why.” 

His voice cracks on the last word and he clamps his mouth shut, takes a deep breath. His chest is tight like it gets before he cries, and that is the absolute last thing he needs to do right now. It doesn’t help that Niall’s just looking at him like he’s-- god, Louis doesn’t even know. Like he’s glass, maybe, or like he’s afraid one wrong thing will set Louis off. To be fair, it’s pretty warranted. That doesn’t mean he likes it. 

“I’m sorry,” Niall says, voice infinitely softer than before. “I didn’t know it was like that.” 

“Yeah, well,” Louis says, waving a hand uselessly. Niall gets up and slides into Harry’s seat, lifts the armrest and wraps an arm around Louis’ waist, pulling him in. Louis goes easily, pressing his face in the juncture of Niall’s neck and shoulder. 

“You hate the middle seat,” he mumbles, and he feels Niall shrug. 

“I’ll live,” he says, and Louis laughs, a wobbly sound against Niall’s skin. 

By the time Harry comes back, Louis’ put his music back on, sharing an earbud with Niall and resting his head on his shoulder, tracing the outline of Niall’s hand against his thigh. Harry takes the window seat without complaint. They fall into silence, and Louis feels himself drifting off again when Harry speaks. 

“All right if I close this?” He motions to the window shade, and Louis looks up at Niall, who’s fallen asleep, and blinks at Harry. 

“Go ahead,” he says, voice scratchy, and Harry doesn’t say anything, just closes the shade and turns toward the wall, curling in on himself. 

Back to that, then. Louis figures it’s the only plausible outcome. He probably deserves it. 

He calls the flight attendant and asks for three pillows, fitting one around Niall’s neck as he sleeps and leans over him, gently wedging the other behind Harry’s head. What? Just because they’ve fought doesn’t mean Harry should get a crick in his neck. That’d be cruel. He takes the third and puts it behind his own, drifting off to sleep again.

\---

“Danielle wants to retire.” 

Louis blinks, sets his drink down on the table and stares at Liam. They’ve been back about a week, and Louis has definitely been taking advantage of his lightened training load. He’s been sleeping more than anything else, and had barely decided to put on clean clothes for this lunch. It’s just Liam. It’s not like he’d care. Or, no, it’s not like Louis would care if Liam cared. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, frowning. “But _what_?” 

Liam nods, his eyes going all pinched and wide at the same time and wow, Louis really hates anyone who makes him look this miserable. Seriously. He loves Danielle, but right now he wants to drown her in an ice bath. Or maybe just make her look at Liam’s face and say “No. Bad.” like a puppy that’s just wee’d on the new carpet. 

It’s a good thing she’s not here, because he’s not sure either of those things are completely rational reactions. 

“Not until after Worlds,” Liam says, still frowning, “But, yeah. She wants to retire. Said she wants to be able to go to university and get a real job, while she’s still like, young enough.” 

Louis scoffs. “She’s only like, what, twenty-three?” She’s older than Liam, yeah, and even older than Louis, but still. Most go until they’re about twenty-seven. “She’s got plenty of fucking time, yeah? She just sprung this on you?” 

Liam nods. That’s seriously really shitty, Louis thinks. Like, really really shitty. But at least she told him and didn’t just fuck off, or something. That would’ve been worse, he’s sure. And Liam’s always been a bit of a worrier. Always been prone to fret about things, so Louis knows it’ll take a lot to get his mind off it. Danielle seriously couldn’t have told him after Worlds?

“I’m really sorry, mate,” he says, and Liam shrugs. 

“It’s not the end of the world, I guess,” he says, sighing. “I can find a new partner, but--” His mouth twists, and Louis reaches out for his hand on top of the table. 

“I’m not sure what’ll happen, y’know, to us.” Ah, and there it is. Definitely the worst part of dating your skating partner. 

“What do you want to happen?” Louis says it carefully, giving Liam’s hand a squeeze. 

“M’not sure. I love her. You know? I love her so much.” 

“Yeah.” 

“But--” Liam stops, chews on his lip. Louis waits, uncharacteristically patient. 

“But I’m not sure I could do that,” Liam says, final and quiet and squeezing Louis’ hand tightly. Louis isn’t good at this sort of thing. He’s not good at like, comfort and advice, not when it’s something where someone doesn’t need to hear the obvious. He knows Liam knows the solution, and he knows it won’t be what anyone wants to hear. Deflection it is, then.

“You’ve just got to talk to her, mate,” Louis says easily, and then, before Liam can say anything, “And you know what I’ve been thinking? We need a proper lads night, yeah? Been ages.” 

Something in Liam’s face loosens (thank christ) and he nods. 

“Yeah, that sounds ace, Tommo. Thanks.” 

Louis scoffs, lets go of his hand. “It’s nothing, just doing my civic duty, obviously, and keeping my best friend from having a meltdown.” 

“I’m not going to have a meltdown,” Liam says, pouting a bit, and Louis laughs. 

“I know, that’s more my thing, yeah? But, really. Lad’s night. Invite the guys, I’ll host, all right? Anyone you want.” 

Liam nods, smiles for the first time all day and Louis lets out a breath. It’ll be okay. Hopefully.

\---

Louis is in the middle of his (third) nap of the day when his phone rings, the dulcet tones of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” alerting him to the fact that it’s Zayn calling. 

Louis is going to fucking kill him. 

“‘Lo?” he says, voice rough, and he hears Zayn snort on the other end. 

“I’m on my way over. Wake the fuck up and order some food,” he says, and Louis snorts. 

“Well, hi to you too, prick,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Indian alright?” 

“Fine. Be there soon.” 

Louis hangs up without answering and drags himself into the kitchen for his takeout menus. It’s not strange, per say, for Zayn to come over in the middle of the day, but it’s definitely been awhile. Of course, they’ve all been training like mad, so it’s not as if there’s been a lot of time to like, hang out. 

By the time Zayn actually arrives, Louis’ ordered the food and made himself comfortable on the couch, grunting out a greeting when Zayn lets himself in with the key he’d never returned to Louis after house-sitting for him once. Whatever, it makes sense for him to have one. Niall has one, too. Liam doesn’t, but Liam would probably let himself in to do weird things, like rearrange all of Louis’ DVDs or put kool-aid in Louis’ showerhead to get him back for all the pranks he’s ever played. 

“So,” Louis says, looking carefully at Zayn’s profile. He’s sat himself on the couch next to Louis, feet kicked up on the coffee table. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“You need to tell me what the fuck you did to Harry,” he answers, and Louis chokes on-- on nothing. On air. He definitely wasn’t expecting that. 

“I didn’t do anything to him,” he says, about as evenly as he can manage. Zayn raises an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, because that’s definitely a reaction someone who hasn’t done anything would have.” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, you took me off-guard. I haven’t done anything.” 

“Yeah?” Zayn looks at him, quiet for a moment. Louis bristles. “Then why’s he acting like a kicked puppy in practice?” 

“How should I know?” Seriously, when did Louis become an expert on all things Harry? He’s not. Whoever’s spreading that rumor needs to stop. “Maybe Simon’s being hard on him and he can’t take it. Maybe he misses Caroline. Maybe he hates it here and can’t wait to go home. Why the fuck would I know?” 

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at him like he’s weighing possibilities when he says, “I talked to Niall.” 

And fuck. Fucking _Niall._ Louis loves him, he really does, except when he does shit like this. Like talking about things he has no business talking about. 

“Yeah? Then why even ask me?” Louis sneers at him, but Zayn ignores it. He misses the days when he was intimidating. “What’d he say, then?”

“That you fought with Harry on the plane. That he apologized and you brushed it off.” 

Louis shifts on the couch, looks away. It’s not inaccurate. But it’s just-- Louis just doesn’t feel like it’s enough. Like he can’t just ignore the almost two year silence because Harry played a stupid game with his friend. It doesn’t explain why Harry stopped talking to him in the first place. 

He lets out a breath, rubs at his eyes and doesn’t say anything. Zayn sits with him, waiting.

“Some things aren’t as easy as that,” Louis says finally. He sees Zayn shrug out of the corner of his eye. 

“Some things are,” he says, and Louis-- fuck. He feels ridiculous. There’s a reason he hasn’t talked about this, and it’s mostly that it makes him feel stupid. Makes him feel like he’s in the wrong when he hasn’t done anything except try to be friends with someone. God, he’s just so tired of it all.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” 

Zayn squeezes his shoulder. “You don’t have to forgive him for shit he doesn’t deserve forgiveness for,” he says gently, “but maybe accepting the apology he’s given is a good start, yeah?” 

Louis nods, runs a hand down his face. “Yeah,” he says, croaks, really, because his voice is just this side of rough. “Yeah, sure, I’ll talk to him.” 

“Good man,” Zayn says, and there’s a knock on the door that startles Louis. Zayn gets up, though, and goes to answer it and get their food. 

Zayn’s probably right, is the thing. It’s been a long time, definitely too long to have been mad at someone. His sports psychologist is always talking about negativity, and how the only way to overcome anything-- but particularly trauma-- is to recognize the negativity it’s caused and let it go. Harry’s lack of contact hardly constitutes a trauma, Louis thinks, but it definitely coincided with one, so maybe that’s the last bit of the puzzle. Maybe if he forgives him he can just...move on. Stop being angry and sad. That might be nice. 

And hell, maybe his skating will improve too.

\---

He doesn’t mean to, but Louis kind of corners Harry in an ice bath. 

It’s just-- he made the trek to the training center specifically to speak to him but got waylaid by Simon, who wanted to discuss the altered choreography for his exhibition skates, then by Jesy, who needed to talk costumes and asked if he had any ideas for next season, which led to a long discussion about the banality of doing a short program to “Bolero” or the fucking overture of _Carmen._ Louis has a lot of opinions. They take awhile to explain. 

Anyway, it’s well past Harry’s ice time by the time Louis escapes Jesy’s perfectly manicured clutches. He tries the locker room, frowning in disappointment when it’s empty. The showers aren’t running, and he can’t hear the slap of wet feet on the ground, so, no. 

“If I were a Styles, where would I be,” he mumbles to himself, walking down the corridor towards the training room. He enters-- if nothing else, he can have a chat with Greg about ice packs vs ice baths; he’s feeling a bit argumentative today, apparently-- and stops in the doorway, blinking at the sight of Harry’s naked chest, his long arms draped over the sides of the metal tub that’s been filled with ice water, his head tipped over the back. He’s trembling a bit, and Louis feels his face scrunch up in a sympathetic wince. 

He clears his throat, giving a slight wave when Harry’s head snaps up. His eyes widen and for one flash of a moment, his face is open, surprised, and in the next it’s shuttered up. 

Louis probably deserves that. 

“Hi,” he says, wincing again at how absolutely dumb he is. 

Harry only raises an eyebrow in response. Louis probably deserves that, too. 

“I, um,” he takes a deep breath. Why is this is bloody hard? Probably because Louis’ only ever properly apologized for something twice in his life, and neither of those times were like this. (One of them was for accidentally trampling Ms. Sally’s prized Petunias and the other was to his mum after he’d blackened the eye of a boy who’d insulted Lottie in front of him. The prick deserved it. The flowers really had been an accident, though.) He stares hard at the sink behind Harry’s head.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he manages, glancing down to see Harry’s forehead crease, but he looks more confused than anything. Not cross. Louis can work with that. “For-- for how I acted on the plane. I-- Thank you. For apologizing. And I’m sorry.” He swallows, but it’s a labored effort. His throat’s turned into the Sahara, suddenly. Inconvenient. 

“Is that all?” Harry’s tone-- soft, but not particularly quiet-- suggests it’s an honest question. No malice. So it shouldn’t sting Louis the way it does. 

“For now,” he answers, hoping Harry can still do that thing where he can tell what Louis is saying without him actually having to say it. Mostly because he doesn’t know how to say _I still can’t forgive you for going MIA on me_ without sounding like a right jerk. He adds, “I sure as hell didn’t drive all the way up here to take an ice bath, if that’s what you’re aiming at.” 

Harry laughs, bright and startled, clapping a hand over his mouth. Louis smirks. 

“You know I’d keep you warm,” Harry says a moment later, and Louis’ mouth goes tight. Harry either doesn’t notice or willfully ignores it. 

“Sure you would,” Louis says, because that seems safest, and takes a step back. “We’re good, then?” 

Harry nods, leans back against the tub again. “We’re good,” he repeats, and Louis gives him a salute before turning on his heel to head back to his flat.

\---

Things do get easier, after that. Harry seems hell-bent on making a place for himself with Team Simon, and he’s so charming and likeable that Louis isn’t surprised that the rest of them expand and mold to accommodate his shape. It’s a bit strange, actually, to see Harry in places he wasn’t before. Like eating lunch with Perrie and Zayn, hands flailing as he tells some story that makes Perrie laugh and Zayn look at him like he’s mad. Or helping Jade on the ice, readjusting one of her spins so she gets more speed; laughing with Niall and Liam at how terrible he is at Mario Kart. Smiling at Louis whenever he sees him, kicking his foot under the table when they’re out to lunch as a group, sitting down next to Louis on the bleachers and pressing their thighs together. 

Maybe it makes sense that Harry fits so seamlessly into his life now. Before, Louis chalked it up to the closeness of touring-- buses and hotel rooms and nearly endless, identical ice rinks-- but maybe it never was. Maybe there’s always been a place for him. 

Louis doesn’t spend much time thinking about it. It’s just easier that way. Christmas comes and goes, and Louis stays in LA for his birthday and the holidays since his family’s taken a ski trip to France. It’s too much risk for him to go skiing, though, and there’s not much to do besides get drunk, and he can do that here and not freeze his bollocks off, thanks. He sees his friends as much as he can, and before he knows it, the regular training has started up again. Not that he has to go. 

But that only means Louis has an extraordinary amount of free time to plan his next prank. It’s something he does every year, and this time around, it’s Greg’s turn. Louis can’t wait. 

“Uh, Louis, don’t take this the wrong way,” Harry says, voice somewhere to the right of Louis, “but I really hope you’re planning on sharing all that ice cream.” 

Louis looks up over the wall of gallon cartons of vanilla ice cream he’s built around himself. 

“Not much of a sharer, if I’m honest,” he says, then frowns. “Why? D’you think I can’t eat it all myself?” He gasps, loud and fake. “Harry Styles, are you implying that I’m _fat?_ ”

The line of Harry’s mouth wobbles, threatening to break into a smile, and he shrugs. Louis squawks at him, crosses his arms. 

“Well. I was going to invite you in on my prank, but if you’re just going to insult me I can go ask someone else instead.” 

Harry’s eyes widen and he shakes his head, “No, no, I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step forward, “I didn’t mean it.” 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “That seems a likely story,” he says, and he knows it’s probably not the smartest thing, to go back to flirting right off, but it’s been a few weeks, and it’s also been nearly two years, and Louis misses him. He’s weak, he knows. It’s not like Harry’s complaining.

“Really,” Harry says, taking another step closer. “You can eat all the ice cream you want, you’ll still be beautiful.” 

Louis snorts, shakes his head and resolutely ignores the way his chest tightens. “Pathetic. That how you seduced Caroline?” 

Harry seems to falter a bit at that, but a moment later the corner of his mouth lifts a bit in a tiny smirk. 

“Nah, I just impressed her with my beauty and grace.” 

“So, what, you managed to walk in a straight line?” 

“Heeey,” Harry pouts and Louis grins at him. 

“Whatever. Come here, then. We’ve got a prank to plan.”

\---

Three hours and fifty-six gallons of ice cream later, Louis grins as he snaps a photo of Greg’s precious ice machine with his phone. It’s been emptied of all ice-- stuffed into coolers and hidden in the storage room, for the time being-- switched to the ‘freeze only’ setting and filled with previously mentioned ice cream. All still in the original packaging, of course. Louis doesn’t have the time or dedication to scoop that much. Or the elbow power, come to think of it.

Besides, Greg would probably snap his neck if he ruined the ice machine. Louis quite likes his neck. And, you know, his life. 

“Where did you even get all of this?” Harry sounds a bit dazed. Louis likes to think Harry’s just in awe of his talent and creativity. A man can dream, eh? 

“I know a guy,” he says with a shrug, moving to close the door. He turns back to Harry, striding towards him, taking his hand and tugging him out of the room. “Now, come on, I can’t imagine Greg will take kindly to this, and we can’t let anything happen to your precious face.” 

Harry laughs by goes easily enough, murmuring, “Precious, eh?” 

“Precious to Britain, obviously. You’re our hope for men’s singles! Can’t skate a long program with a giant scar on your cheek or summat.” 

“Seems a bit shallow, that,” Harry says, fingers tightening around Louis’ and Louis can practically hear the smile in his voice. 

“Hey, don’t blame me for the antiquated beauty standards of this sport,” Louis says, leading Harry down the corridor and to-- well, he’s not sure. Somewhere, he knows. The locker room is probably the best bet. 

“I’m only here to compete. Don’t hate the player, hate the game, you know,” he adds, and Harry snorts. 

“Of course, so it doesn’t matter that you clearly benefit?” 

Louis stops and turns in a wide circle, keeping his hold on Harry’s hand intact. He looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowed just the slightest bit, and he hopes he looks intimidating. Maybe he does, because Harry’s smile falters a little. 

“You’re one to talk, Curly,” he says, but it feels a bit strange and Harry’s shoulders tense up. Louis isn’t really sure how they keep finding themselves at the crossroads between uncomfortably tense and awkwardly flirty, but it seems significant that they do. Like one day they’ll choose which road to take and maybe find themselves at a different crossroads. 

(Louis is hoping for ‘fuck me so hard I forget my name’ and ‘come in our pants like teenagers’, but he knows it’s a pipe dream. Everything great is.) 

Harry blinks, then smiles like he knows something important. Predatory, maybe. All-knowing. Smug. It’s simultaneously awful and ridiculously attractive. 

“So.” He pauses, and Louis raises an eyebrow. 

“You think I’m pretty, then?” He’s going for joking, Louis can tell, or maybe nonchalance, but Harry’s always given too much away with those stupid eyes of his. They look almost turquoise, Louis notes, under the florescent lights in the corridor. Christ. This is not the time.

Louis shrugs. “I mean, you’re no Zayn Malik, but you’re not bad,” he says, then laughs, tearing his hand away to bolt down the corridor and into the locker rooms. 

“Hey!” He hears Harry’s shout behind him, but he only laughs again as he rounds the corner, skidding to a halt in front of the open door. 

He freezes, eyes widening as he takes in the sight of Zayn and Perrie kissing, rather enthusiastically, against the lockers. He hears Harry’s approaching footsteps in the back of his mind, all the other space taken up by the noise Zayn just made and the hollow thud of Perrie’s elbow against the locker. And isn’t that appropriate, the fact that Harry still manages to take up some corner of his mind, like he’s carved it out, just for himself. Annoying.

Louis knows he shouldn’t be watching this. It’s weird, and probably slightly perverted, but Zayn and Perrie have always been-- they’ve always been Zayn and Perrie, Ice Dancers, best friends who’ve been skating together for over a decade but totally platonic. This is just….weird. Zayn would’ve mentioned something to him, if he’d like-- if it were important. And this has to be important. You don’t snog your long-time ice dancer partner without, like, thinking about it. If you’re smart, at least. So when the hell did this happen?

Thankfully (or not, as it were), he’s pulled from his thoughts by an impressive collision that knocks him to the side, stumbling and shouting in surprise. Harry’s hands steady him easily, and Louis grabs on to one of his wrists, unthinking. Louis looks up at him, their gazes catch and lock. Louis can’t even imagine what his own face looks like right now, but he’s almost overwhelmed by the blatant openness in Harry’s gaze. He lets out a breath.

It’s all a little too much, at the moment. 

“Lou?” Harry says it gently, but Louis can’t answer, because they’re interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Loudly. 

Louis turns his head to see Zayn-- looking frustratingly put together for someone who was just snogging a girl against a bank of lockers, seriously, his cheeks aren’t even flushed and wait, where did Perrie even go-- looking at them with his eyebrow raised. He looks at Louis and gives a pointed glance downwards, where Louis’ hand is still wrapped tightly around Harry’s wrist. 

He lets it go as if he’s been burned. It’s not his proudest moment.

“Speak of the Devil,” Harry says easily, his hands moving to his own hips. 

“Don’t think he meant to appear like this, though,” Louis says, and Harry gives him a questioning look, but Louis brushes it off with a shrug and a wave of his hand that doesn’t actually mean anything. Zayn’s still looking at them critically, and Louis feels tense. Awkward. Out of sorts.

“Right,” Harry says, after a moment. “I’m just gonna--” He motions toward the door, side-stepping Zayn easily. 

“What’s all that, then?” Zayn’s voice is low, pitched so Harry won’t hear, and Louis rolls his eyes. Really? _Really_ , Zayn?

“Doing what you told me to do, maybe? Accepted his apology. Comes with a consequence of friendship, I’ve heard.” 

“Didn’t look much like friendship to me, mate,” Zayn says, and Louis feels his face go flat. 

“Yeah? Neither did you making out with Perrie, but I guess we’ve all got different definitions.” There’s a brief, shining moment of satisfaction when Zayn’s face twists-- anger and regret, Louis’ guessing, but he can’t be sure-- but it’s eclipsed by the realization that Zayn didn’t tell him he had feelings for Perrie. Anger blooms in his chest, heat running down all the way to his fingertips. He clenches his hands. Fuck that, then.

“Louis,” Zayn starts but Louis shakes his head. 

“Forget it, I won’t tell,” he says, already starting to back away. It’s not like it’s his business, really, what Zayn decides to do with his mouth. “I’ve got to go, see you later,” he adds with a wave and turning. 

“Louis, _wait_ ,” Zayn says, but the rest of whatever he’s going to say is drowned out by a shout, followed by the loud slam of metal on metal. Greg, then.

“Tomlinson!” 

Yep, definitely Greg. 

“No, really,” Louis says to Zayn, waving a hand. “I’ve really got to go.” He bolts for the fire exit, praying the alarm won’t go off. 

It doesn’t, but that’s probably the only thing that’s gone right for him all day.

\---

The World Championships isn’t until March, but without constant reminders of what day it is or how long he has to get his programs into shape, Louis completely loses track of the time. 

LA’s consistently perfect weather doesn’t help either, but it does mean he has an excuse to go to the beach. It’s February, and the Pacific Ocean isn’t exactly warm, but it’s nice enough that Louis can wander around in a pair of his jeans, cuffed, and a t-shirt. Maybe an overshirt. It gets a bit windy on the shore, after all. 

Anyway, he sends out a group invite, but only Harry answers him. Liam’s not really speaking to Louis, since he’s still a bit pissed at Zayn, and he’s not sure Liam even knows about Perrie, but he’s taken Zayn’s side anyway. He’s like that, Liam is. Niall’s gone home for an extended visit before starting his tours, and Louis didn’t actually invite Zayn, so. Just him and Harry. He considers cancelling, but he’s getting tired of the inside of his flat. 

He still pulls out his phone the night before, and scrolls through his contacts. 

_Hey, it’s me, Louis._ God, he hates that he has to type that. _We still on for tomorrow?_

The reply comes less than five minutes later.

_**of course! can’t wait. pick me up? xx** _

Right. The kisses. That was always a thing Harry did, he knows. His Twitter feed is full of them. 

_Need an address for that, love._

The reply comes with one, and what Louis assumes is a flat number, and Louis saves it in a reminder, throws his phone on his bedside table and goes to sleep.

\---

The number, in fact, had not been a flat number. 

It’s a _room_ number, because apparently Harry Styles lives in a bloody hotel. What the fuck? It’s not even a nice one. It’s one of those seedy ones with a variety of rates, ranging from hourly to monthly. The paint on the sign’s faded and peeling, barely legible, and Louis can’t even imagine what the fucking inside must look like. Or smell like. 

Harry seems unperturbed, at least, and smiles widely when he slides into the passenger seat of Louis’ car. 

“Mate, I say this with love, really, but why the fuck do you live here?” Louis’ tone’s a bit harsh, he knows, but still. Christ. He knows Harry’s got sponsorships, and they all get a bit of a stipend to help with accommodations, but still. There has to be something better. 

“Um. I suppose it was just easiest when I got here?” Harry lifts a shoulder, not looking at him. Huh. Louis only knows vague details of Harry’s break with his previous coach; creative dissonance, tension, unproductive working environment, etc. The sort of thing that gets sold to the press in a statement, but nothing substantial. If Harry hadn’t even had time to look for an apartment, things must have been awful. 

“Right,” Louis says, feeling like a bit of a jerk. “Well, um, I could help you look? If you needed it. I’ve got a bit of spare time, you know.” 

Harry finally meets his gaze, looking at him quietly for a moment before smiling, dimples and all. 

“Yeah, that’d be aces, thanks,” he says, and Louis snorts. 

“Please, the busier I am, the less likely it is that the rink gets set on fire, yeah?” He uses backing out of his parking spot as an excuse to avoid Harry’s gaze, keeping his eyes on the road. Wouldn’t want them both to die in a tragic road accident. That’d be awful. 

“Guess so,” Harry says, and Louis doesn’t respond. 

\---

The beach is mostly empty, since it’s a wednesday in February. There are a few couples milling around, more tourists than Louis would’ve expected and some high school and/or college kids littered about, clearly thinking they’re tough with their cigarettes and piercings. Please. Youths. Louis can’t stand them, and he technically is one. 

“So,” he says, knocking his elbow into Harry’s as they walk along the shoreline, “how’d you manage to get out of training today?” 

Harry shrugs. He’s wearing a plaid shirt over a thin white t-shirt that pulls up with the movement, flashing a bit of skin at his hip. Louis doesn’t look. 

“Lucky, I guess,” he says, and Louis raises an eyebrow. 

“No one on Team Simon is lucky.” He reaches over, pinches Harry in the side, pleased when he yelps a bit. “Out with it.” 

Harry only stares at him from behind his Ray Bans, so Louis reaches out and pinches him again, going for a nipple this time. Harry’s yelp is much louder. 

“Simon suggested I take a few days,” he says finally, batting Louis’ hands away. “Said I like, needed to clear my head a bit.” 

Ah, yes. Pretty typical of Simon to do, actually. It’s one of the things Louis likes most about him. He may be tough and getting compliments from him may be nearly impossible, but he cares, and there’s not a single person he coaches who thinks otherwise. Except maybe Harry.

“That all?” Louis nudges him a bit, allows it when Harry catches his elbow and doesn’t let go. It’s not an entirely pleasant way to walk, but it’s not unpleasant. 

“I guess? I just--” He lets out a breath, looking away. Louis follows his sight line to a young couple with their toddler. A girl, judging by the stereotypically pink and white polkadotted suit. The father’s sitting in the sand, apparently in the process of being buried by his wife and daughter, and absolutely loving it. Louis feels a pang for his own family and sisters, way back in Doncaster. They’d love the beach. 

“Guess I’m just worried I’m disappointing someone,” Harry says, quietly pulling Louis back into the conversation. He frowns. 

“Who in the world could you possibly be disappointing?” Seriously? He’s Britain’s fucking national champion. “You’re a national champion. I think it’s safe to say Simon’s suitably chuffed.” 

Harry only shrugs again, and Louis wishes he could see his eyes to get a better read on him. Fucking pretentious sunglasses. He’s quiet for a moment, twisting his arm in Harry’s grip until he lets it go, then winds their hands together. Louis has always been a tactile person. He can’t exactly change that about himself. He doesn’t want to change it. 

“That why you left, then? Too afraid of disappointing someone?” He’s not trying to sound judgemental, but he supposes that’s how Harry takes it anyway, judging by the way he stiffens up next to him. 

“No,” Harry says, drawing it out a bit, like he can’t decide whether or not he wants to say more. He doesn’t, for a few moments, but Louis has always been good at waiting when he needs to. 

“That was more--” Harry sighs, and his mouth scrunches up. “That was like, just too much? I did well in one competition and then suddenly people expected something of me, you know? Like, expected me to just--” He waves a hand in a vague motion, but yeah, Louis gets it. 

“They expect you to win every time after that,” he says quietly, meeting Harry’s gaze when he turns his head sharply toward him. Louis squeezes his hand. 

“You’ve forgotten who you’re talking to,” Louis says with a bit of a laugh, “but yeah, I get it.” He pauses. 

“Though you should probably be glad your meltdown only ended in switching coaches and not humiliating yourself in front of, you know, the whole of the international skating community.” 

Harry doesn’t respond for a moment, not verbally at least. He lets go of Louis’ hand and turn to wrap him in a hug so tight and sudden that Louis’ breath catches in his chest. He stands frozen for a second, shocked, but Harry bends to press his face into the juncture of Louis’ shoulder and neck and it’s like he’s hit some magic switch Louis didn’t even know he had, because he feels himself melt into the contact, arms winding around Harry tightly. 

“Thank you,” Harry mumbles, and Louis laughs, feels it reverberate against Harry’s chest and back into his own. A strange feeling, but not entirely unwelcome. 

“For what, having a breakdown? Nearly ending my career?” He goes for gentle teasing, but only to cover up what would surely be some embarrassing desperation in his tone. Harry’s just so warm, and he smells so good. Christ. “I’ll be sure to do it more often.” 

“S’not what I mean and you know it,” Harry says, face still hidden under curls and pressed to Louis’ skin. His glasses are starting to dig uncomfortably into Louis’ neck, actually, so he slides a hand up to the back of Harry’s neck. Harry’s hands move in tandem with his, sliding lower on his waist, one resting in the small of his back. Louis ignores the feel of Harry’s thumb pressing on his spine, the spark of heat it flares. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says, getting a gentle grip on Harry’s curls and tugging his head up. “We’re starting to make a bit of a scene, I think,” he murmurs, glancing around at a few people who are definitely staring. 

“Right,” Harry says, voice rough, and Louis pretends not to be disappointed when his arms fall away. The wind seems colder, now. He lets his own grip loosen and takes Harry’s hand again. 

“You hungry?” He works to make his tone light, easy. 

“Think I might starve to death soon, if I’m honest,” Harry says, and Louis flashes him a smile. 

\---

“Why Simon?” 

Harry raises an eyebrow at him from behind his burger-- definitely not on their recommended diet, but who the fuck cares-- chews slowly, and swallows. Louis absolutely does not watch the movement of his throat. 

“What d’you mean?” 

Louis sighs, a long-suffering thing. “If you’re going to leave your coach, why Simon? I’m sure anyone in North America would’ve snapped you up if you’d asked. So why not Orser? Or like, Yuka Sato?” 

Harry shrugs. “Dunno, really. Orser works with up and comers, yeah? Didn’t seem like a good fit,” he says, and Louis can’t help but agree. He’s heard some things, and none of them were particularly encouraging. Still, he seemed to get results from his skaters. 

“And Yuka’s nice, but, I dunno. Colorado?” Harry makes a face and takes a sip of his drink. Louis laughs. 

“Frank Carroll, then? If you’re so insistent on LA.” 

“Bit like Orser, yeah? Think he prefers to mold his own instead of, you know, someone who’s been molded.” Louis nods, takes a bite of his own burger. Harry looks at him a moment, wind blowing in the slight breeze where it’s not trapped under his sunglasses.

“And, y’know, you were always talking about Simon, before,” he says, and Louis feels himself tense up. He looks away. That first season with Simon had been amazing; brusk encouragement and zero tolerance for any of Louis’ bullshit. A match made in Heaven, really. 

“Yeah,” he says, looking carefully at his fries. The sight makes him a bit sick, now. “Guess I was.” 

“He was also the only one who’d even speak to me about it,” Harry barrells on. “So there’s that.” 

Louis nods. He’s not surprised that Simon took Harry on. Team Simon’s a bit like the Island of Misfit Toys, if you think about it, and it makes sense that Harry fits in so well. He’s talented, too, obviously, so that helps. 

“Glad you came,” Louis says, looking back up at him, and Harry smiles. He doesn’t ask whether Louis means ‘glad you came to the beach’ or ‘glad you came to LA’, but Louis figures that’s because he already knows which he means. 

\---

They spend the rest of the day together, which turns into Harry staying the night in Louis’ spare room-- it seems easier than driving him all the way back to that disgusting hotel-- which means Louis wakes the next day confused and with a nose full of eggs. 

Not literally, obviously, but like, the smell. Of eggs. Which someone’s cooking. Who the fuck is cooking in his flat? He pads out into the hall, forgoing the shirt, because if it’s an egg-making burglar, he’ll probably just be killed anyway, yeah? Or maybe he can seduce him. Christ, he needs more sleep. Or to get laid. 

It’s only Harry, though, which Louis realizes as soon as he sees the back of his curly head. He hasn’t had a roommate in awhile, so sue him. It’s easy to forget. 

“You’re making breakfast?” His voice sounds a bit rough to his own ears. He should probably drink some water, or something. 

Harry turns sharply, face lighting up in a smile at Louis. “Yeah, least I could do, I thought,” he says as Louis makes his way over to him. Louis waves a hand. 

“Do for what? Letting you sleep here? It was more for me than for you, mate,” he says, scratching at his stomach. He doesn’t see how Harry’s eyes track the movement before flicking up to his face, too busy rooting around in his fridge for orange juice. 

“Was it?” Harry’s voice has gone low, and Louis feels the press of a hand on the small of his back. He freezes and takes a deep breath before lifting his head to glance at him. 

Harry’s hand touching his bare skin is too much, too sweet, like the first day of spring after months and months of piles of snow and grey skies. It’s warm and comforting, though it doesn’t have any right to be. He steps away from the contact, hand clutched around the neck of the orange juice. 

“‘Course it was, mate. Didn’t want to risk getting mugged outside your, ah, living arrangements, didn’t I?” 

Harry’s eyes narrow only slightly before he’s shaking his head, huffing out a laugh. “Right,” he says, rolling his eyes, but Louis is pretty sure that the smile on his face means he’s sort of unbearably fond of him. It warms him. 

“Those eggs are going to burn,” he says, laughing as Harry scrambles to turn off the stove. “Back in a mo,” he adds, setting the orange juice down and making a break for his room. He really needs to put a shirt on.

\---

“How d’you afford this place?” 

Louis drags his attention away from the replay of last week’s Liverpool vs City game. He knows the result thanks to the power of the internet, but he still likes to watch. It’s not particularly awe inspiring, though. Bit boring, which is not something he thought he’d ever say about a football match. 

“Um,” Louis says, processing the question. His flat’s nice, he knows, and it’s got two bedrooms because Aiden lived there with him, for awhile, after he’d first got to America. 

“Advert deals, mostly.” He shrugs. No use in lying about it. 

Harry raises an eyebrow, clearly dubious. “I’ve never seen you on the telly. I mean, doing something besides skating. Or talking about skating.” 

“I’m very popular in Japan.” 

Harry snorts. “Yeah, come on then, what is it really. You can tell me, I won’t like, judge you.” 

Louis frowns. “I just told you. I do adverts.” 

“In Japan.” Harry’s voice has that edge to it again, like he’s angry or like this is some sort of joke and Louis is confused. 

“You don’t believe me?” 

“It’s pretty unbelievable,” Harry says, crossing his arms, and Louis cannot believe they’re actually fighting about this. He grabs his laptop from the coffee table, flips it open and goes to youtube, searching ‘louis tomlinson toyota’. He clicks on the first link, and shoves the computer at Harry while it loads. 

It’s quick: thirty seconds of some pop song Louis’ never heard playing in the background as he looks out of the window of a sleek black car. Images of his own programs-- exhibition skates, mostly-- play on the CG’d windows of the buildings the car passes. His best jumps and spins all compiled. A voiceover (in Japanese, of course) says something about how to purchase the car or what its features are, but Louis isn’t paying attention. He has the thing nearly memorized, by now. 

He’s looking at Harry, who’s looking at the screen with wide eyes and a hand clamped over his mouth. It’s ridiculous, really, and Louis bristles, frowning. 

The commercial ends with Louis shouting something in a terrible accent and Harry glances up at him, hand still over his mouth, hiding what Louis’ sure is a ridiculous smile. Louis does _not_ blush. He doesn’t. 

“You asked,” he says, and Harry laughs. 

“Oh my god,” he says, shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling up. Louis snatches the laptop away, closes it and puts it on the table. He glares at Harry as he laughs, full-bodied and loud. It finally dissolves into something quieter, more manageable, and Louis looks away, running a hand through his hair, embarrassed. Of course he’s embarrassed. It’s not like he keeps the fact that they exist a secret, but it’s not like he goes around showing everyone. 

“Hey,” Harry says, voice quiet and apologetic but Louis can still hear the laugh in it. He’s being stupid, he knows, but it’s been awhile since someone’s laughed at him so blatantly. 

“Hey, I’m sorry, okay?” Harry paws at Louis’ thigh, one hand digging in just above his knee and the other going around Louis’ waist, pulling him down the couch. Louis whines, struggles, but Harry’s strong. 

“I thought you were joking,” he says, leaning his head against Louis’, breath hot on his ear. Louis struggles again, hands pushing against Harry’s chest, but he doesn’t budge. His hand curls into the hem of Harry’s shirt and stays, not knowing whether to pull him closer or try to push him away again. 

It’d be so easy, is the thing. Just so, so simple to turn his head and catch Harry’s mouth with his own, press him back against the couch and rut against him until they’re both shaking apart. He’s fairly certain Harry would let him, too, but he’s not allowed to want that. Not when their friendship is still so new and Louis isn’t even sure if that’s what he wants anymore. A casual fling with his teammate. Louis doesn’t really do casual. Not anymore. He’s not sure he ever actually did.

“Obviously I wasn’t,” he says, after too long a pause, and Harry squeezes his knee before backing off. Louis inhales, bringing his feet up on the couch with him, huddling up a bit. 

“You looked different,” Harry says, nodding toward the computer. Louis snorts. He’d done the adverts a year or so ago, back when his look centered around perfectly quiffed hair and being impeccably clean-shaven. He’s grown out of that a bit, too. Still styles his hair for performances and competitions, obviously, but he’s much more okay with walking around in comfortable clothes and a beanie. No need to look amazing all the time. It’s too tiring, really. (Besides, when doesn’t he look amazing?)

He shrugs. “They liked it,” is all he says, and Harry hums in response. 

\---

Later, after they’ve ordered and eaten dinner-- and christ, that’s another full day spent with Harry, isn’t it-- Louis lets Harry choose a movie for them to watch. He picks _Love Actually_ , even though it’s February. 

(“Didn’t get to watch it this year, I’ve got to make up for it,” Harry had said as he put the disc in. Louis had only sighed in response. It’s pretty difficult to say no to Harry, he’s finding out.) 

Halfway through, Louis is stretched out across the sofa, feet dug in under Harry’s thigh, eyes drifting closed as Harry’s thumb runs over his ankle, seemingly absently. 

“These are new,” he says, and Louis blinks, turns to look at him. He’s peering down at Louis’ ankle, at his ‘the’ and ‘rouge’ tattoos. Louis sighs. 

“You’re not even watching the film,” he says, in lieu of a real answer, and Harry looks up at him for a moment, brow pinched up but his gaze heavy. Louis stares back, feels something pull at him, deep in his gut. The moment hangs heavy, stretches, and Louis feels it snap when his falls from Harry’s eyes to his mouth, just briefly. He feels his own tongue come out to wet his lips, but it’s not a conscious thing. 

Harry makes a noise that Louis can’t decipher, wraps his hand around Louis’ ankle and tugs, hard enough to pull him on the couch properly. Louis grunts with the movement, the sound catching as Harry’s hand slides up his leg to his thigh, pressing it to one side as he crawls between them. Louis’ other leg unconsciously falls to the side as well, foot hitting the floor, giving him a bit of leverage. His hand curls in Harry’s t-shirt, an echo from earlier, and the other grabs Harry’s bicep, squeezing.

“What--” he starts, but Harry shushes him, settles against him, hands hard on Louis’ hips, thumbs inching just below his t-shirt. Louis lets out a shaky breath as Harry leans down, pressing their foreheads together. Harry smells good, like something earthy and spicy and warm, but also faintly like Louis’ washing powder. It sends a thrill up his spine. 

“I can’t have sex with you,” Louis blurts, way too loudly for their close proximity. Harry only laughs. 

“Presumptuous,” he says, hands squeezing tighter on Louis’ hips. Louis holds back a groan, but only just. His hand slides from Harry’s bicep to his wrist, gripping tight. 

“You’re on top of me,” Louis points out, wincing at how breathless he sounds. Harry laughs again, softer, nose brushing the ridge of Louis’ cheekbone. 

“Suppose I am,” he murmurs, tilts his head, and no, _no_ , Harry’s going to kiss him but that is the opposite of what needs to happen. Really. There’s a reason. Louis can’t exactly remember it over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, but there’s a reason. A really, really good one. 

“Simon!” He slaps at Harry’s chest, trying to wiggle away, but _God_ , Harry’s grip on him is ridiculously strong. 

“You’re thinking about Simon?” Harry sounds less amused and more put out, and a laugh bubbles up in Louis’ chest, hysterical and desperate. 

“Simon will kill you if you have sex,” he says, and Harry frowns properly at that, straightening up. His hands don’t leave Louis’ hips, but the hold loosens, so Louis takes a breath. 

“That’s a real thing?” 

Louis laughs at the horrified expression on Harry’s face. He can’t help it.

“Unfortunately,” he says, giving Harry’s wrist a little squeeze. Harry runs his thumbs over Louis’ hipbones in return, and that’s not exactly what Louis wanted, but he can’t complain. 

“And you know this from experience?” Harry’s voice seems a little uncertain, and that’s a bit of a laugh, really. It’s not like Harry waited around for him. Why’s he expected to do the same? 

“Yeah. Had a one-off about halfway through my second season. Simon just about turned purple when I walked in the next day. Sent me home without training.” 

Harry blinks, his shoulders sagging. He looks at Louis, face scrunched up and sad. “You’re really not kidding?” 

“Wouldn’t joke about this, love,” he says, thumb running over the delicate skin on the insides of Harry’s wrist. Harry shudders above him, eyes closing briefly, and Louis nearly laughs with how stupid this all is. He uncurls his hand from Harry’s t-shirt, giving his stomach a bit of a pet before wiggling away. Harry makes a noise, but Louis can only flash him a brief smile. 

“Should get to bed,” he says, carefully extricating himself from the couch and Harry’s limbs. “You’re welcome to stay, obviously. Should stay. I’ll just--” he motions toward his bedroom. 

“Right,” Harry says, a bit dazed, like he can’t really comprehend what just happened. Louis can relate. “See you in the morning, then.” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, turning his back.

\---

It’s not that he means to picture Harry later, when he wraps a slick hand around his aching dick, giving himself a few long strokes. It’s just that it’s been a long time since Louis’ had any sexual tension with someone, let alone real action, so it’s just...natural. 

Perfectly understandable that he’d picture Harry above him and between his legs, one of his giant hands working them both off at the same time. Or Harry on his knees on the floor, mouth wrapped around Louis’ length, sucking him off, quick and efficient. 

It’s totally not weird that Louis comes harder than he has in months-- _years,_ probably, but who’s counting-- to the thought of fucking Harry’s mouth until his lips are red, bruised and swollen. Not weird at all. 

It’s just the proximity, is all. And the fact that Louis doesn’t really know how to be just friends with Harry. It’s fine, though. It’ll all be fine. 

\---

Harry’s cooking again when Louis wakes the next morning, but it’s not anything Louis recognizes the smell of. He rolls out of bed, picking up a shirt off the floor and putting it on before emerging. 

“Are you making French toast?” 

Much like yesterday, Harry turns and smiles at him, and Louis stomach lurches. He smiles back, eyes flicking down to his chest and:

“Is that my shirt?” Louis knows the answer already, actually, because it is his shirt. His favorite Joy Division shirt, actually, and he’s been looking for that. 

“Oh, um, yeah, I found it on top of the dresser in the spare room?” Harry looks a bit uncertain, but Louis just walks past him, taking the spatula from his hand and flipping over the piece of toast on the stove, already starting to get black around the edges. Honestly. 

He feels Harry behind him, radiating warmth and smelling like-- like Louis’ bodywash, actually, and he’d like to say it’s not a turn on, but it definitely, definitely is. Harry leans in, one hand resting on the counter, the other wrapping around Louis’ and the spatula, flipping the piece of toast up easily, moving it to the plate with three others. 

“Is it okay that I’m wearing it?” Harry murmurs it into his ear, and Louis really, really hates him. 

“Yeah, fine,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound half as strangled and frantic as he feels. What’s he going to do? Throw a fit and say no? Make him take it off in the middle of the kitchen? Well, that wouldn’t be too bad, really, but no, that can’t happen. 

“Good, because you’re not getting it back.” Harry moves away from him, grabbing the plate and walking toward the table. Louis squawks at him, indignant, but Harry sets the plate down in front of an empty chair and takes the one across from it, pouring syrup over a plate that must be cold, by now. Louis stands and watches him dumbly until Harry looks up at him, eyebrows raised. 

“S’not poisoned,” he says. Right. Be polite, Louis. Eat the breakfast the pretty boy made for you, Louis. 

He sighs, waves a hand. “Fine.” He sits, bringing a leg upon the seat with him, knee against his chest. “But you still have to give me my shirt back.” 

Harry only grins at him.

\---

Zayn comes through the door sometime in the afternoon, right as Harry tackles Louis to the couch screeching about being a cheater. Louis doesn’t see how pinching Harry’s nipple to distract him while on rainbow road strictly constitutes cheating, but whatever, he’s not really thinking about that right now, not with a lapful of Harry.

“Guess I should’ve called,” Zayn says, and Louis feels Harry freeze above him. Their eyes meet and Louis presses his lips together, snorting. Harry giggles, sits up, and Louis waves to Zayn. Brilliant timing, as always. What is he even doing here? They’re still fighting. Louis’ still mad.

“Guess you should’ve,” Louis says brightly, smiling in a way that he’s sure Zayn knows means he’s pissed. Harry, bless him, catches on pretty quickly, and leans in to speak quietly to him. 

“Everything ok?” Louis snorts, pinches his nipple for posterity. 

“Copacetic, bro,” he says in his best imitation of a surfer bro voice. Harry laughs and stands. 

“Um, I should be going,” he says, and Louis frowns. 

“You need me to drive you?” 

“Nah,” Harry says, shaking his head. “I’ll get a cab or something. Walk. Nice day for it.” 

“Okay,” Louis says to Harry’s back as he disappears in the spare room, then reemerges, wallet and stupid sunglasses in hand. God, Louis likes him so much. 

Harry hesitates for a moment before wrapping Louis up in a hug. Louis closes his eyes to avoid seeing the look on Zayn’s face. 

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs, mouth against Louis’ ear. “For everything. Means a lot.” 

“No problem,” Louis says, giving him a pat on the back. Harry lets him go and Louis trails him to the door, giving one last wave once he’s gone. He shuts the door leaning his back against it. 

“And what the fuck was that?” 

Louis’ eyes snap open. Zayn’s standing in front of him, eyebrow raised and looking as angry as Louis has ever seen him, but that doesn’t make any fucking sense at all. 

“Friendship,” Louis answers. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business,” he adds, pushing off the door and striding to the middle of the room. 

“Like hell it’s not my business, Louis, you’re my best fucking friend,” Zayn says, and Louis snorts. 

“Please, the protective friend card has been retired. Try again,” Louis snaps, “Or, better yet, tell me what the fuck you’re doing here in the first place. I can’t imagine it’s actually about Harry.” 

Zayn deflates at that, like the sight of Harry and Louis made him forget the fact that Louis walked in on him and Perrie less than two weeks ago. 

“Came to apologize,” he says, running a hand down his face. He flops on the couch and Louis follows suit, not looking at him quite yet. 

“Yeah?” Louis hates how pathetic he sounds. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says, “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret, y’know? Just didn’t know how to like, talk about it.” 

Louis can understand that. Maybe if he hadn’t been wrapped up in his own shit, he would’ve noticed. God, Louis’ been a shit friend. 

“Not like I’ve been easy to talk to lately,” he says, and Zayn shrugs, but doesn’t disagree. Louis scoots closer to him, reaching out for his arm. Zayn comes easily, resting his head on Louis’ shoulder. 

“You know I’m like, happy for you, right,” Louis asks, nudging Zayn’s head with his own. “Like, if Perrie makes you happy, then I’m happy for you. Don’t want you to think I’m not.” 

“Yeah, I know, you great sap,” Zayn says with a bit of a laugh, and Louis pinches him. Rude. “S’nice to hear you say it, though. Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

They fall silent, but not uncomfortably so. 

“You want Indian?” 

Zayn laughs and nods, and Louis goes to collect his phone.

\---

“So,” Zayn says, dropping the container that once held curry in front of himself on the table. Louis looks up at him. 

“So,” he parrots, and Zayn drums his fingers on the table. 

“You ever going to tell me about Harry?” 

Louis lets out a breath, leans back in his chair. 

“Dunno what there is to tell, honestly,” he says, shrugging. Zayn gives him a look, and Louis waves a hand. 

“What, you want like, the whole story?” 

“If you’re willing to tell me.” Zayn shrugs, easy as that. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever told anyone the whole thing,” he says carefully, and Zayn keeps looking at him. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. 

“Well,” he says, “I’m here whether you want to or not. Whichever you choose, you know.” 

The surge of affection Louis feels is so sudden and huge that he actually sags forward a bit, taking a deep breath. It’s easy to trust Zayn. It’s his face, mostly, and his big, kind eyes, and probably the fact that he’s one of the most loyal people Louis’ ever met. 

He inhales on a five count, exhales, and opens his mouth to speak. 

\---

He met Harry in a bathroom. 

Weird, he knows, but it is what it is and he’s not even really sure Harry still remembers. But they’d sort of collided at the sinks at the same time, managing to splash water on the front of Harry’s hoodie, and the rest sort of worked itself out. 

Louis was nineteen when it happened, but he felt all of twelve years old when he looked up at Harry’s smiling face in the mirror. Twelve years old and at his very first official practice, his coach telling him to just have fun and show him what he could do. He feels that now, feels the need to impress and challenge and prove himself. He’s not sure why. 

“Oops,” he said, and Harry’s smile grew even bigger. 

“Hi.” 

\---

“So when you said the whole story, you really meant the whole story?”

“Do you want to hear it or not, Zayn?”

“Yeah, of course! But--”

“ _What_?”

“Maybe like, skip the sex stuff?” 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Louis--”

“Fine! Fine. No sex stuff.”

\---

A bathroom in an ice rink in Vegas, and that’s where they’d met. Harry was seventeen to Louis’ nineteen, and he’d clearly just gone through a growth spurt, with how he wobbled around on his legs off the ice. Louis had yet to see him on it, but he figured if he’d been asked on tour, he was pretty good. 

They were the only two from England, so it made sense that they spent so much time together, in the beginning. Harry was one of the youngest, and not shy, really, but everyone came off as shy when Louis was involved. He was all bravado, all talk, all flair. He knew how to make a scene and make an impression, and he also knew that people found it easy to hide behind him. 

He was happy to shield those who wanted it, and Harry seemed to. They spent almost every night together, innocently, that first year. Innocently. Maybe that was the wrong word for it, because Louis knew he wanted to kiss Harry, that he would kiss him, and that it was all just a matter of time. 

\---

“Shit, that makes me sound like a paedophile, doesn’t it?” 

“Just a bit, yeah.” 

“Well, that’s not what I meant. You knew what I meant? I mean, I just felt like, connected to him, you know? Like fate, or something.”

“Yeah, Louis. I know.”

\---

The tour lasted the whole summer. 

It was new for Louis; the longest he’d ever had to consistently skate in his life. He thought at first it wasn’t a good idea, but Simon assured him that the constant movement would be good for him and his fully healed knee. He’d warned Louis not to overdo it, of course, and Louis was still young enough then that a warning from Simon meant he’d follow it to the letter. So, he trained just as much as the traveling coaches and medical trainers told him to, did his exercises and stretches, and found other ways to fill the time. 

Most of it was spent with Harry, unsurprisingly. Sometimes they’d sneak off in the middle of the day to explore whatever city they’d landed in, making sure to always be back by their call time. Other times they’d just stay on the bus, sharing headphones and listening to music, or cram themselves into one bunk, whispering to each other about home. Nights in hotel rooms were reserved specifically for talking shit about the other skaters, some of whom were nice, but were mostly made up of real jerks. 

They were jerks to Louis, of course, which is why he made fun of them. Whispering behind his back about his injury, questioning his dedication to his training when he went home when the trainers told him to, making fun of his accent. They were all children, and ones who’d never been properly socialized. Louis found it easy enough to ignore them. 

No one ever seemed capable of being rude to Harry, so mostly he just laughed at Louis’ impressions of them. Louis liked to think that Harry had heard the whispers about Louis just as much as Louis had, and that’s why he laughed, but he never could be sure. Didn’t really matter, anyway, because Harry was spending his time with Louis, and not them. 

That was the important part. 

The closeness lasted the summer, turned into texting and skype calls in the fall and winter and through the rest of the season. They met again at British Nationals, fell into an old routine easily, did well enough to please their coaches and themselves and got ready for another summer of touring. 

Something had changed, though, in the time between Nationals and the start of the tour in the beginning of June. Louis wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. At least, not until Harry crowded him up against the wall in the empty locker room after their first performance and kissed him until he couldn’t think straight. (Ha, straight.) 

And that was that. It was another summer of performances for people who were there to see them for fun, not to score them on how well they landed their jumps or anything like that. Another summer of cramped bus bunks and hotel rooms and another summer that transitioned into fall. 

And then. 

\---

Louis pauses, taking a drink. Zayn looks at him, expectant.

“What?” 

“And then what?” Zayn throws his hands up. Hm. Seems like someone got a bit more invested than he expected. Louis hides a smirk behind the rim of his glass. 

“And then nothing,” he says. “It all just-- stopped. Harry wouldn’t answer my calls or anything, completely ignored any interaction I tried to initiate.” Louis shrugs. It doesn’t hurt so much to talk about now, which is nice, but there’s still something there, lingering. A question, mostly. _Why?_

He’s not sure he’ll ever get an answer. He’s not sure it’ll do any good, at this point. 

“So, what, the first day he trained with us, that was the first time you saw him?”

“In a year and a half, yeah,” Louis says, shrugging again. Zayn already knows about that first day; how Louis had burst in the room and started complaining about him, to his face, without even knowing who it was. Christ, he feels so stupid about that. 

Zayn lets out a low whistle, sitting back against the couch. 

“That’s shit, mate,” he says, and Louis laughs despite himself. 

“It is. Or, was. It’s all better now, I guess.” It still feels weird to say it. “We’re friends, I guess.” 

“I keep telling you, friends don’t act like that,” Zayn says and Louis snorts. 

“When have I ever done anything in the way it’s supposed to be done?” 

Zayn tilts his head, examines him for a moment, and nods. 

“Guess you’re right.” 

\---

Niall comes back just as everyone’s getting ready to leave for Worlds. 

It’s absolutely brilliant, because then Louis doesn’t have to feel so goddamned devastated that all his friends are leaving him for almost two weeks. Well, nearly all his friends. Not Niall, obviously. 

He attaches himself to Niall, knowing it won’t really help the empty feeling that comes from not hanging around Harry-- and God, how pathetic is he-- but it’s nice. He missed Niall while he was away. 

“Saw Harry wearing your Joy Division shirt yesterday,” Niall says one day while they’re kicking a football around in the park. Louis stops the ball and looks up at him. Niall meets his gaze easily, casually, and Louis knows what he’s asking. 

“Yeah, he took it after he stayed a couple of nights. You were in Ireland,” Louis says, kicking the ball back to him. Niall makes a thoughtful noise, catching the ball easily, dribbling with it a bit. 

“A couple of nights?” He passes the ball back to Louis. He stops it without a thought, frowning at Niall. 

“If you want to ask something, just fucking ask it,” Louis snaps at him, but Niall only grins at him. 

“You two hook up, then?” 

“No.” 

“Ah. Wanted to?”

Louis kicks the ball back to him, just a touch too hard. It hits Niall in the shin instead of rolling to his feet. Louis doesn’t apologize. Niall just laughs like he got his answer. 

“Thought so,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate, and Louis is thankful for the silence that follows as they pass the ball back and forth. 

\---

Later, they’re laying on the grass, tired and sweaty, and Louis turns his head to Niall.

“He wanted it too,” he says, because he feels like it’s important. It is. It is important, because Harry wanted him back. Wants him back, maybe. He has to tell someone. (He wants to tell anyone who’ll listen, actually, and even people who won’t.) 

Niall glances at him, an eyebrow quirking up over the edge of his sunglasses. 

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, smiling. “You’re right fit, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” But that’s the problem, isn’t it. He can’t tell if it was just a one-off thing, or if maybe… maybe something else. He just doesn’t know, and it’s frustrating and awful and Louis wants to die a little bit every time he thinks about it. 

Okay, that’s dramatic, but he definitely wants to hide in a pile of blankets and not come back out until he isn’t thinking about it anymore. 

“Hey.” Niall’s voice is soft, but enough to draw Louis’ attention back to him. He reaches out, brushes a knuckle over Louis’ cheekbone. “He’s an idiot if he doesn’t, yeah? You know that.” 

Louis is thankful for his sunglasses, and the dark lenses hide his watery eyes. Niall grins like he already knows, though, the bastard. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a catch,” Louis says, rolling over and sitting up, brushing grass off himself. “Tell me something I don’t know.” 

\---

Louis has no idea what he’s doing. 

Well, no, he knows what he’s doing. He’s taking Harry to the airport so he can fly to Japan and compete in the World Championships. He doesn’t know why he offered or why Harry said yes instead of just going with the rest of the team. He doesn’t know why he finds the sight of Harry in sleep-rumpled joggers and a soft-looking jumper so incredibly endearing. He doesn’t know why the sight of his own beanie on Harry’s head makes him smile instead of snap and snatch it off, like he would if it were Liam or Zayn. 

No, no, he does know why. He just doesn’t want to think about it. 

“Is that my beanie?” he asks, after the door closes behind Harry. Harry looks over at him, grinning, and Louis glares, mostly for show. 

“Maybe,” Harry says. Louis reaches out and pinches him, hard. “Ow!” 

“That’s what you get,” he says, lifting his chin and turning away to pull out of the parking lot. They’re on a schedule, after all. 

Harry hums in response and switches on the radio, turning it to one of those awful stations that only plays the trash that hipsters love to listen to. It’s easy enough to block out, though, until Harry starts humming along. 

Louis rolls his eyes and tries to hide his smile. It probably doesn’t work. What an idiot. He’s not sure if he means himself or Harry. Probably both of them.

“Oh,” he says, glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “I think I found you a flat, by the way.” 

The way Harry turns his entire body toward Louis shouldn’t make his spine tingle the way it does, but, there’s that. He’s always loved being the center of attention, after all. 

“Really?” Louis can’t help it; he has to smile at the look on Harry’s face. 

“Yeah.” He pauses, chews on his bottom lip for a second. “Thought you could move into mine?” 

He hates the way his voice goes up at the end, so unsure and uncertain and giving away everything Louis wants to keep hidden. Betrayed by his own voice. How will he go on? 

Harry stares at him for a long time, silent, and Louis feels himself tense, glancing back and forth between Harry and the road so many times he makes himself a bit ill. 

“Really?” Harry repeats, and whatever hope had been in Harry’s voice the last time he spoke, it’s been magnified tenfold, maybe even twentyfold. A lot. There’s just a lot of hope, Louis can tell. 

“Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t serious,” Louis says, lifting a shoulder. He glances back at Harry, all the tension leaving him at once as Harry’s face lights up. 

Of course, that’s ruined as Harry surges over the console, wrapping his long arms around Louis’ neck and pressing a kiss to the side of his head. 

Louis nearly swerves off the road. 

“Fuck! Harry, oh my god, let me _go_ , are you mad?” He struggles away while trying not to swerve more, and Harry finally relents, settling back into his seat. 

He stares at Louis for a moment, that giant smile still on his face. 

“You’re absolutely bonkers,” Louis says, and Harry laughs. The sound of it resonates in Louis’ bones.

\---

It’s an embarrassing goodbye at the airport. 

It wouldn’t be if, perhaps, they were a couple. Then it might make sense that they’re stood by the security line, wrapped up in a ridiculous hug. Really. Louis can hardly tell where he ends and Harry begins. ( _That’s the way it’s supposed to be,_ a traitorous voice in his head says. Louis ignores it.) 

People are definitely staring as they finally pull away from each other. Louis is focused on glaring at an old man with a bowler cap who’s been staring longer than most when he’s distracted by the sound of Harry sniffling. 

“Haz, are you _crying_?” Louis isn’t sure where the nickname came from, but he can’t take it back now. 

Harry’s dipped his head, curls hiding his face, but Louis can still hear the sniffling. 

“Hey,” he says gently, tipping Harry’s head up with a knuckle under his chin. 

“None of that, yeah?” He runs a thumb under each of Harry’s eyes, wiping away the wetness. Totally a thing friends would do, right? Just being a good friend. He meets Harry’s gaze, smiles at him as their foreheads press together. He’s not sure which one of them did it, but he’s not complaining. 

He cups Harry’s face with both his hands, thumbs running over his cheeks. Harry’s long fingers wrap around Louis’ wrists. He inhales a shaky breath, and exhales. This is so fucked.

“You’re going to be great, okay?” His voice is quiet. Just for Harry to hear. Only for Harry. “You’re going to skate perfectly and win a medal and you’re going to have fun, yeah?” 

“Lou,” Harry starts, but Louis cuts him off. 

“No, shut up, I’m not done.” Harry closes his mouth. “Thank you. That’s the most important thing, Harry. You’re going to have fun, okay? Because you love this sport. You were made for it. Meant for it. No matter what anyone says.” 

He feels Harry’s hands squeeze his wrists, and he sways closer before he can stop himself. 

“Louis,” Harry tries again, but no. Louis _isn’t done._

“They can’t take it from you, okay? Just remember that. That ice is yours. They can’t take it.” 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, nearly into Louis’ mouth. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Okay,” Louis says, giving himself a moment, just one, before moving back to stand on his toes, press a kiss to Harry’s forehead and wrap him up in another hug. He holds on for a long moment and then lets go, giving Harry’s hand one last squeeze. 

“I’ll see you on the other side, yeah?” 

Harry nods, adjusts his (Louis’) beanie and picks up his bag. He gives Louis one last glance before he goes, like he’s trying to decide on something. He seems to reach his answer, and leans in, kissing the top of Louis’ head. 

“Thanks for the ride,” he murmurs, squeezes Louis’ shoulder and turns, walking toward the security line without looking back. 

Louis makes it back to his car, slides into the seat and grips the steering wheel tightly, inhaling and exhaling slowly, trying to calm himself down. 

It sort of works.

\---

Five days later, Harry wins silver. 

It’s the best a man from Britain’s done in a long time. Like, an embarrassingly long time. Louis stays up to watch the competition with Niall, livestreamed onto his computer that’s been hooked up to the television. 

Harry is-- It’s indescribable, really. Louis wishes he’d been there to see it in person, because he knows at least half of the emotion in a performance is lost in translation, and he’d liked to have seen it all. Gotten the full experience, as it were. 

As it is, though, Harry’s electric. His training with Simon really shows. He was good before, there’s no denying that, but now, with consistent training and a coach that actually collaborates with him instead of just telling him what to do, he’s beyond talented. It’s almost fucking transcendent to watch his long program, set to  The Blue Danube Waltz. 

It’s unorthodox, certainly, for a singles skater to do a program to a waltz, but it really only serves to stack Harry’s technical points higher, because he hits the steps perfectly, stays in time like he’s made for it. It’s choreographed well; cleverly placed footwork and jumps interspersed with the crescendos of the music. And Harry. Harry skates like he has someone with him, like there’s a figure next to him the whole time, and Louis doesn’t know any other skater who can do that. At least, none that are still competing. 

Definitely not Max Aaron, who competes after him and scores higher because he’s got two quads-- one of which he landed with two feet, but whatever-- and fucking _Carmen_ on his side. Louis hates Carmen. With a passion. 

Louis is both incredibly pleased and incredibly enraged when Harry wins silver, because Harry deserves more. Deserves everything, really. Louis doesn’t think about what he means.

\---

A week after winning silver, Harry moves the last of his boxes into the spare room, which Louis guesses he should start calling Harry’s room, because. Well. He lives there now. It’s a bit unreal. And nerve-wracking. Definitely, definitely nerve-wracking.

He smooths his hands down the front of his shirt once Harry disappears into his room, taking a deep breath or two. Or ten. 

“You alright?” Louis’ head snaps around and his mouth twitches up in a smile at the sight of Harry leaning against the doorframe. 

“Yeah, fine. Just got winded with the boxes, is all.” 

Harry snorts. “You watched me bring all of them in.” 

“Maybe I’m more out of shape than I thought,” he says, but Harry doesn’t answer, just pushes off from the door frame and strides across the room in about three steps. (Unfair, that. Stupidly long legs.) 

Louis raises an eyebrow at him, opens his mouth to say something, but Harry grabs his face, hauls him in and kisses him. 

It’s-- Fuck, it’s _everything._ It’s soft and demanding, firm and grounding and _Harry._ Louis hasn’t kissed him in so long, but fuck, it’s like he never forgot how. And how could he, really, when it makes so much sense for Louis to just tilt his head so their mouths slot together just right. He’s not thinking when he licks into Harry’s mouth, swallowing the noise he makes, greedy for it. Harry’s hands find his hips, and Louis feels himself walking, but it’s a distant thing, and he’s much more concerned with the kissing right now. 

His back hits a wall and knocks the breath out of him. He pulls away a moment, hand winding into Harry’s curls, keeping him at bay for just a second. He needs to stop. He needs to think. 

“Lou,” Harry whines, hooking long fingers into the waistband of Louis’ jeans and tugging, hard, making both of them groan when their hips connect. Louis slots a leg between Harry’s, pressing in and up, pleased with the way Harry shudders at the contact. His head falls back, leaving his neck exposed, and Louis goes for it, pressing a sucking kiss to the base.

“Louis, please,” he says, hands moving frantically under Louis’ shirt, fingers finding a nipple and squeezing. Louis moans embarrassingly loud and arches into the touch, because of course Harry would remember that. Harry disappears out from under him as he drops to his knees, and Louis blinks, looks down, and lets out a breath at the sight of him. Fuck, he’s so pretty. He’s so pretty it’s almost unfair. Harry runs his hands up Louis’ thighs to his hips, grips them and presses him back into the wall. Louis bites back a whimper. 

“Please, please, please,” Harry’s whispering it, fingers fumbling with Louis’ flies, rambling on and on. Louis smiles down at him, running a hand through his curls, half-listening and, “please, Louis, season’s over, need it,” he hears, and his body goes cold. Ridgid. 

Right. Because that’s what this is. A release of tension at the end of the season. Louis is so fucking stupid.

He puffs out a breath and forgets to inhale again until Harry says his name, uncertain. He thought maybe that Harry-- no, no. Clearly not. It makes sense, though. Louis’ been sending him pretty mixed signals. He inhales sharply, and Harry’s hands have loosened enough that Louis steps away, hand over his mouth. He might be sick. It’s a real possibility. So _stupid._

“Louis,” Harry repeats, voice low and rough, fingers digging into Louis’ thigh. Needy. Louis is definitely going to be sick. 

“I can’t do this,” he says, pressing a hand over his eyes, stepping away from Harry again, redoing the buttons on his jeans. 

“What?” Harry sounds wrecked, still, but outraged, his eyes wild and bright. Yeah, Louis supposes if he felt less ill he’d be pretty pissed too. Or if he were the one on his knees. 

“I didn’t let you move in so I’d have easy access to your dick, Harry,” he snaps and regrets it the instant Harry recoils as if Louis’ struck him. 

The silence that follows is oppressive, heavy. Suffocating.

“I know that,” Harry says quietly, still on his fucking knees on the carpet and God, Louis hates him. A lot. Probably hates himself more, though. Harry crawls closer, reaching out, but Louis steps back again. Harry’s face crumbles. 

“I’m just-- not interested in what we had before, yeah?” Louis tries to be gentle about it, because this is clearly not a good day for either of them. He doesn’t want to make it worse, but he has to be clear, right now, or it’ll never change. “I’m not-- casual, Harry, you get it? I don’t do that anymore.” 

“Right,” Harry says, but he doesn’t really look like he’s listening. Louis would’ve stormed out a long time ago, if it were him. “D’you want me to-- I mean, should I go back to the hotel?” 

What? 

“What? No, Haz,” he winces at the nickname, but keeps going, taking a step toward Harry, despite himself. “You don’t-- I want you to stay. I like when you’re here. I just don’t want--” 

“Okay,” Harry says slowly, looking up at Louis. His lips are still spit slick and red, and he looks a bit dazed. It’s not surprising, given the emotional whiplash that’s occurred in the last few minutes. “So what do we do about--” He gestures between them. Right. 

“Um, just, forget it, I think,” Louis says, internally wincing at how much of a coward he is. “That might be easiest.” 

Harry laughs, but it’s a hollow sound, so wrong that it makes Louis’ stomach lurch again. Harry stands, wobbling a bit, and Louis wants to catch him around the waist, lead him back to his bedroom and fall into the bed with him. But no, that goes against everything he’s just said. He can’t jerk Harry around like that. It wouldn’t be fair. 

“I’m gonna go unpack,” Harry says, scratching the back of his head. Louis can only nod and watch him shuffle into his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks! [come say hi!](http://jessimond.tumblr.com)
> 
> ALSO I just wanted to mention that Max Aaron is a real, professional figure skater, and all the other coaches mentioned are also real people. I simply abused their names for the sake of this fic and nothing I wrote about them is meant to be the truth!! <3


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the usual: a big ole thank you to my beta, any remaining mistakes are mine, and this is all for fun, none of it's true. 
> 
> enjoy!

Louis spends the next ten minutes pacing his bedroom, frantic. That was probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done. Like, ultimately stupid. Takes the cake. The only thing stupider would’ve been letting Harry suck him off-- and God, he’s actually a little impressed that he was able to resist that temptation-- and _then_ having his freakout. 

Thank God for small miracles, eh? 

In any case, Louis needs to not be in the flat anymore. He needs-- he’s not sure what he needs, besides to find some way to get rid of this pent up frustration that doesn’t involve sex or skating. He just needs to be gone. Away from Harry. Not permanently, mind, but for now. 

He can’t very well fuck off without telling Harry, though, and while he could just text him, he decides a face to face thing might seem better. He’s been enough of a coward tonight. 

Louis raps his knuckles on Harry’s door, wincing at the rough “yeah” that comes from within. He creaks the door open and sticks his head through. Harry’s sat on his bed, a box next to him, open and half-emptied. 

“Just gonna pop ‘round to Zayn’s,” Louis says, ignoring his red-rimmed eyes, blotchy cheeks. (Crying, he was crying and Louis did that. Louis made him cry. He’s such a dick.) “Thought I’d let you know.”

“Okay,” Harry says, voice sounding like the scrape of sandpaper against wood. “Thanks.” 

“No problem. Help yourself to anything, yeah? I shouldn’t be too long.” Maybe. If he decides he can ever face him again.

Harry nods and bends his head back down, going through his box again. Right. Dismissed, then. Louis closes the door carefully, leans against the wall for a moment, and pushes away. Out, out, out. 

\---

Niall, bless him, doesn’t even blink when he opens the door for Louis. 

“Tommo!” He drags Louis inside and hugs him tight, and the smile Louis puts on is only half-fake. It’s hard to be anything but happy when you’re around Niall. Even when you’ve just massively fucked up.

“I think I really fucked up,” Louis says, and Niall just raises an eyebrow and nods. 

“Come on, then. Got just the thing for ya.” 

The “thing” turns out to be an honest to god root beer float. Like, a glass with vanilla ice cream and root beer poured on. Louis isn’t sure he’s ever had one outside of those cheesy diners with the vinyl booths and ugly tabletops.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be so American,” Louis says, swiping a bit of the foam with his finger and sucking it into his mouth. “I’m a little impressed, mate.” 

Niall snorts. 

“I’ll admit, it’s got its perks,” Niall answers, grabbing two spoons, tossing one to Louis. He catches it easily and draws his glass closer, greedily. “But nothing compares to Ireland, yeah?” 

Louis rolls his eyes. They’ve had this conversation countless times in two years. They can skip it this once. 

“Yeah, yeah, majestic Mully, no place else like it.” Louis waves a hand. 

Niall grins and settles back against the counter, scooping out some foam. They eat silently for awhile, room filled with the sound of their spoons clinking against their glasses and the occasional slurping. Niall’s just finished his float-- Louis’ only half-done-- when he turns, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at him. 

“So,” he says, and Louis stirs his float, needlessly. 

“So,” he parrots. Niall sighs. 

“Gonna tell me what happened, or are you gonna make me guess?” 

Louis winces.

“I maybe,” he takes a deep breath, staring into his melted drink. “I maybe almost slept with Harry? Again.” 

Niall doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t for so long that Louis looks up, only to find him looking confused, brow furrowed. 

“But that-- isn’t that a good thing?” 

Louis laughs. “In what world could that be a good thing?”

“It’s the end of the fucking season, mate! What better time for it is there?” 

“I don’t know,” Louis shrugs, sets his glass down, wipes the perspiration on his jean shorts. “I guess I didn’t really want it to be like, a one-off, you know?” 

Niall’s face softens, just a bit, and he nods. “Yeah.” 

“And I don’t know-- Everything was so screwed up, you know? With Harry. Before. And I don’t know--” He twists his mouth, clenches his hand into a fist. _I don’t know if it’s worth it,_ he thinks. Niall seems to hear him anyway. He’s good like that. He puts a hand on Louis’ shoulder, squeezing.

“Have you actually talked to Harry about it?” 

Louis snorts. “Kind of? I told him-- I told him I didn’t want what we had before,” He winces, embarrassed. It was probably the wrong thing to say, but it’s too late to take it back now. 

Niall rolls his eyes. “Yeah, of course you did. Christ, Lou.”

“I was in a bit of a panic, in my defense.” 

Niall waves a hand like it doesn’t actually matter. “Point is, you’ve just gotta talk to him about it, yeah?” 

Louis can’t think of anything he’d rather do less. Seriously. Well, except maybe take a never-ending ice bath. Or like, have to murder someone. That’d really suck. 

“You remember what you told me when I was trying to get with Cher last summer?” Niall’s voice draws him back, and he frowns. “Or when Liam was head over heels for Danielle but wouldn’t do anything about it?” 

He does. He told them both to get their heads out of their asses and just talk to them. The worst that could happen is they could say no, and if they did, Niall and Liam could just get over it. Right. 

“This isn’t the same, though,” Louis says, and Niall rolls his eyes again. 

“It isn’t?” 

Louis shakes his head. “It’s not like-- Harry’s not just some girl I know and want to fuck. No offense,” he adds, and Niall shrugs. Liam wouldn’t be so kind, he knows. “I knew Harry, before. We used to-- I thought--” He inhales a shaky breath, then exhales. 

“I was in love with him, I think,” he says, and Niall squeezes his shoulder again. A moment later, he’s wrapped up in a hug, gripping the back of Niall’s shirt to stop his hands shaking. 

“You were or you are?” Niall asks it quietly, and Louis is glad he can’t see his face. 

“I’m not sure,” he answers, and feels Niall nod against him. 

\---

So, that’s fine. Louis is possibly in love with the bloke who just moved into his flat after three months of being friends and almost two years of not speaking to each other. Fine, it’s fine. Not weird at all. 

It’s kind of terrible and makes Louis want to be sick when he thinks about it, but it’s fine. It’s good. Great, even. Okay, not great, but fine. Just fine. 

When he re-enters the flat, it’s quiet. He can see the light on in Harry’s room and hears faint music coming from it, but it’s not loud enough to warrant an excuse for Louis to talk to him. It’s not late, but Louis’ exhausted anyway. Even with all the sugar he ate with Niall. 

He goes to bed, resolving to talk to Harry about it tomorrow. 

The problem is, though, that Harry’s avoiding him. Well, maybe not actively avoiding him, but he gives short answers to Louis’ questions and spends more time in his new room in the next few days than Louis has probably spent in his own room in all the time he’s lived in the flat. It’s annoying, mostly, and makes Louis itch. 

Harry’s on the couch when Louis comes in from the shop a few days later, laden with grocery bags. He sets them on the counter, resisting the urge to yell out something obnoxious, like, _honey, I’m hoooome_ , and puts the food away. He’s a little surprised that Harry doesn’t offer to help, but he supposes it’s a bit difficult to avoid someone if you’re trying to help them organize a kitchen. Whatever. 

Harry doesn’t look up as Louis pads out into the living room and stands by his legs. He’s sitting in the middle of the couch, so even if Louis sat down, they’d be close. Probably too close. 

“Hey,” Louis says, and Harry’s eyes stay on the screen. 

“Hi,” he responds eventually, and, well, it’s a start. 

“Could we talk?” 

“Dunno that we have anything to talk about,” Harry says, and Louis rolls his eyes. Such a fucking drama queen, seriously. That’s his job. 

“Drama queen doesn’t suit you,” Louis snaps, then tackles Harry onto the couch. 

Unsuspecting as he is, Harry’s still strong, so there’s a bit of a struggle-- a terrifyingly close encounter between Louis’ crotch and Harry’s knee as well as Louis’ elbow into Harry’s ribs-- before Louis manages to settle securely on Harry’s waist, using his weight to press him down into the couch, hands linked, held up and by his head. Harry’s breathless, flushed, and looking at Louis with wide eyes, full of ...reproach, maybe. Betrayal, if Louis were being dramatic about it. 

“We need to talk,” Louis says, and Harry puffs out a laugh. Louis jostles with the movement.

“Not really in a place to disagree, am I?” 

Louis grins, presses his weight into Harry once more before sitting up, resting his hands on his own thighs. It leaves Harry splayed beneath him, and really, it’s not a bad (or unfamiliar) sight, but Louis can’t think about that right now. 

“I just wanted to explain, if you’d let me,” Louis says. Harry doesn’t say anything, and Louis sighs. “I can get off of you, if that’ll help,” he adds, but Harry shakes his head, rests his fingertips on the tops of Louis’ knees. His skin tingles at the contact. 

“No, no,” Harry says, digging in a bit before releasing again. Louis feels a muscle in his thigh twitch. “I, um. You can explain. If you’d like.” 

Right. Okay, then. Louis lets out a breath, looks up at the ceiling, then back down to Harry. 

“So, before,” he starts, wincing already, “before, um. You moved here, I guess.” That’s the safest way to put it, he’s sure. Least offensive. “You-- we-- It wasn’t easy, I guess. Right? It was all a bit muddled, I think, since we really only knew each other on tour. Or saw each other then. So it was different, I guess. What we did. More, um. Casual.” 

He glances down at Harry, who’s looking at him with a brow raised. Maybe Louis’ not making much sense. 

“Yeah, casual,” Harry agrees, nodding. Okay, maybe he is making sense. Good. 

“Right. Casual. And then it wasn’t anything,” Louis says, looking away from Harry’s face. He feels his fingertips again, higher up this time, still digging in hard enough that Louis knows there will be red marks. He doesn’t think about it. “It wasn’t anything because you just-- you stopped. And then I stopped too, after awhile. And maybe I shouldn’t have, maybe I should’ve just, tried harder--” 

“Louis,” Harry says, interrupting, voice low and urgent, but Louis squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. 

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s all done now,” he says, opening his eyes again. He clears his throat and looks down to catch Harry’s gaze. “But, um, that hurt, you know? It was seriously shitty, Haz. Even if whatever we were was casual, you were still my best friend, and you just-- stopped.” 

He watches Harry’s mouth press into a thin line and tremble. He didn’t mean to do that, not really. He’s just trying to be honest, for once. 

“So,” he barrels on, taking a deep breath, “I just-- I’m just sort of not interested in going through that again, you know? And I didn’t mean to-- to lead you on, if I did.” Though, even if Louis had led him on, he still doesn’t owe him anything, but they won’t get into that right now. That’s a completely different fight. “I’d-- I like being friends with you. But I can’t just be someone you casually fuck in the off season to blow off steam. That’s all.” 

Harry makes a noise, a sort of whine in the back of his throat, and Louis looks away, then scoots away, until his back is pressed against the arm of the couch. He draws his knees up to his chest, watching as Harry sits up slowly, folding up on the couch to sit cross-legged. He’s quiet for a moment, picking at the piping on one of the couch cushions. Louis wants to kick his foot out and tell him to quit it. He doesn’t. 

“That’s fine,” Harry says finally, glancing up at Louis. “That’s not really what I had in mind the other day anyway, but--” he says, and Louis nearly snorts. So Harry’d just wanted a complete one night stand? With someone he just moved in with? Great. Excellent, really awesome. 

Louis allows himself five seconds of anger and lets it go. 

“--about before. I feel like I should explain,” Harry’s saying when Louis comes back to the conversation. Fuck. 

“You don’t have to,” he says, exhausted. He's just so tired of this. Of everything. “I get it, yeah? It was the distance or whatever, I mean, it’s just-- it’s not important now. I’d rather just put it in the past.” 

Harry looks at him, brow pinched, lower lip trapped between his teeth before he releases it, brow smoothing out. He looks away, nods. “Yeah, fine,” he says, “If that’s what you want.” 

“It is,” Louis says, resting his chin on top of his knees. He watches Harry chew on his lip for a moment (and he’s absolutely not madly, irrationally jealous, he’s _not_ ) before stretching out a leg, poking Harry in the hip with his toes. 

He grins when Harry turns his head. 

“Party at Nialler’s on Saturday. Kind of a tradition. You in?” 

Harry’s answering smile nearly blinds him. “Definitely,” he says, and Louis feels his chest loosen, just a bit. 

\---

Maybe it was stupid, asking Harry to move in with him. Maybe Louis should’ve known that asking someone you’re kind of in love with and definitely want to fuck whenever they’re within five feet of you to move into your tiny flat is the worst idea known to mankind. Seriously. It’s worse than when they had to share a room, because apparently, if there’s no real reason for it, Harry just doesn’t wear clothing. 

Like, literally. Constantly naked. It’s driving Louis nuts. (Awful pun notwithstanding.)

It’s only been four days, but Louis has walked in on Harry sprawled naked on the couch, hair still wet from a shower-- a towel under him, thank god-- just, watching telly or scrolling through his phone four separate times. That's once a day! 

(“You really can’t air dry in your room?” Louis had snapped it at him yesterday, the third time in three days. Ridiculous. 

“Better draft in here,” Harry’d replied, not looking up from his fucking Twitter feed. Louis had scoffed and stormed into the kitchen.) 

Thankfully, though, he seems to have decided that the party at Niall’s is important enough to warrant actual clothing. Not that one could really call his black skinny jeans and a plaid shirt unbuttoned to nearly his navel actual clothing, but. If Louis doesn’t have to look at his flaccid dick anymore, he’ll take it. 

“I see you’ve dressed up for the occasion,” Louis says as Harry emerges from his room, one tattered brown boot in his hand and the other already on his foot. 

“Thought I should,” he replies, his free arm stretching to prop himself up as he bends his legs, lifts one, crosses it over the other and shoves his boot on. It’s a strange tangle of limbs, and Louis can’t quite bring himself to look away. “Might meet the Queen, after all.” 

Louis snorts. “Please. Closest you’ll get is the portrait Niall has of her over the couch.” 

Harry drops his foot to the ground and raises an eyebrow. “I can’t tell if you’re joking,” he says after a moment, suspicious. Louis laughs. 

“Wish I was, to be honest. Best I’ve warned you; now you won’t stare.” 

“Isn’t he Irish?”

Louis looks at him for a moment. This is going to be so good. “Of course he is,” he says eventually. 

“Right,” Harry says slowly. Clearly he thinks he missed something, and Louis probably shouldn’t take as much joy in it as he should. 

“Come on, we’ll be late, princess,” Louis says, turning on his heel and making for the door. He smiles to himself, pleased, when he hears Harry’s footsteps follow him a moment later. 

\---

“Not the Queen I thought you meant,” Harry murmurs into his ear sometime later, after they’ve arrived at Niall’s and made themselves comfortable. Harry’s boots have been discarded by the door and Louis’ own shoes are...somewhere. By the couch, maybe? He’s not sure. 

“Thought as much,” Louis responds, and his toes curl into the carpet as Harry huffs out a breath against his neck. He glances up at the framed poster of Beyonce, then back down to Louis. Louis takes a drink of his beer. 

And, god, that’s why they’re here. _Beer._ Real beer with calories and its absolutely horrid taste because Americans really can’t do shit correctly and Niall never buys the good stuff. Harry leans away, pops a grape into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. 

“Makes sense, though,” he says, rolling another grape in his long, long fingers. Louis absolutely doesn’t track the movement. 

“What’s that?” 

Harry tilts his head toward the poster. “Beyonce. Proper queen in America, isn’t she?” 

“I think you mean _everywhere,_ mate.” Niall’s voice makes Louis jump, his beer sloshing a bit. Niall doesn’t seem too concerned about it, though, just winds an arm around his shoulders and one around Harry’s waist. 

“Suppose I do,” Harry says, voice on the edge of a laugh and Louis snorts. 

“Right,” he says, turning to Niall. “I was promised junk food. Lots of it. Time to share, Irish.” 

Niall grins at him and gestures to the table, over-piled with so many bowls and plates that Louis is a bit overwhelmed. It’s a seriously impressive spread. He’s going to hate himself tomorrow. 

“Excellent,” he says, striding toward it.

\---

“No more, no more,” Louis groans dramatically from where he’s sprawled on an armchair, disposable plate balanced on his thigh. It’s been cleared, save a few crumbs and a streak of orange, which was some kind of sauce or icing. Louis isn’t sure which, and he doesn’t care. 

“Where’d you even find all that food?” Zayn’s voice comes from somewhere around Louis’ left knee. The floor. Bean bag chair, maybe? Niall’s got a few of them that he keeps locked up for visits like this. “Seriously, did you buy out the whole bloody store?” 

Niall just grins at them from his spot on the couch-- curled up around the arm nearest to Louis and Zayn, while Harry and Liam take up the rest of the space. Harry’s stretched out as much as he can be with his head resting on the back of the sofa with his feet dug in under Liam’s thighs. Louis isn’t jealous. He isn’t. 

Liam looks miserable, especially for someone surrounded by friends. His plate is only half-eaten. He breaks off a piece of a crisp and crunches it, though it doesn’t seem to help at all. Louis narrows his eyes. No one else has seemed to notice, which is ridiculous. They’re all finely attuned to one another. Or, used to be. Have things really changed that much since Harry’s arrival?

“Did what I had to,” Niall answers, munching on his own crisps-- his third plate-full, and seriously, how does he do it, it’s almost unnatural-- and Harry snorts. 

“Hope that doesn’t mean you had to like, murder someone,” he says, and Louis hums in agreement. 

“Really. And if you did, why didn’t you tell us? You know we could hide a body better than anyone.” 

Niall cackles, making Louis grin. That never gets old, even if Niall does laugh at basically everything he says. 

“Oi, Payne,” Louis says, picking a pretzel stick off Zayn’s plate and lobbing it at Liam. It hits him in the cheek, and Liam doesn’t even glance up. Something seriously the matter, then. “Tell us what’s wrong, or I’ll come over there and pinch it out of you.” 

Liam does glance up at that, and so does Harry, both of them raising an eyebrow. Louis ignores Harry for the moment; Liam’s clearly more important right now. 

“S’nothing,” Liam says.

“You have until the count of five,” Louis responds, holding up a hand. He straightens a finger. “One.”

“Louis--”

“Two.” 

“Really, I don’t want to talk about it--” 

“Three.” 

“ _Louis._ ” 

“ _Four._ ” Louis stands, puts his free hand on his hip. Liam doesn’t bat an eyelash. Zayn laughs from the floor and Harry moves his feet out of the way. Niall munches on his crisps. 

“Liam,” Louis says, but Liam just stares back, as if Louis won’t actually tackle him and pinch him until he says what’s wrong. 

“Louis,” Liam answers, and Louis launches himself onto Liam’s lap, going straight for his nipples. Liam yelps, completely undignified, and Louis bears his weight down as he struggles, bracketing Liam’s thighs with his own. Liam slaps at Louis’ chest, but it doesn’t hurt at all, so Louis knows he’s holding back. Makes him that much easier to break.

“Harry,” Louis manages, dimly aware of the rest of the boys behind them. “Hold his arms down for me.” 

“What, _Louis_ ,” Liam says, struggling again, but Louis only laughs as Harry’s torso comes into view behind Liam’s head and his large hands wrap around Liam’s wrists to press them back into the couch. Liam whines, tries to tug his hands away, but Harry’s hands tighten and press down harder. Louis ignores the spike of heat at the base of his spine. 

“Now,” he says, hands settling on Liam’s hips, inching under his shirt, “You’ll tell us what’s wrong or I’ll tickle you until you piss yourself.” 

Niall makes an indignant noise behind him, but whatever, Liam will give in long before that. Louis knows that. Liam looks at him and he stares back, hands squeezing his hips. 

“Louis,” Zayn says from the floor, tone edging on a warning, “maybe you should let it go.” 

Louis shakes his head in response, not breaking eye contact. “Li,” he says softly, pressing forward just briefly. 

It must do something, because Liam’s face flashes with uncertainty for just a moment, and Louis feels his own eyes widen. Something must be really, really wrong. Usually by now Liam would've just told him. 

“Harry, let him go,” he says, not taking his eyes off Liam’s face, the creasing line of his brow, the slight wobble of his chin. Fuck. Liam’s about to cry. 

“What?” Harry sounds confused-- probably is, by Louis’ sudden change in demeanor, but this is-- really not good. At all. 

“Let him _go_ ,” he snaps, something loosening in his chest when Harry obliges and Liam slumps forward. Louis catches him, wraps his arms around his neck and draws him close. 

“Danielle,” is all Liam says, voice weak, and Louis squeezes him tighter. God, he’s such an arse. He could’ve asked Liam in private. He should’ve asked Liam in private, but no, here he is, having a breakdown on Niall’s sofa. Fuck. But, right, this isn’t even about Louis. Liam. It’s about Liam, and his potential break up with the love of his life. 

“I know, love,” Louis says, even though he actually has no idea. He can wager a guess, though, and the others must have heard them, because he feels arms wrap around his back, feels Zayn and Niall press up on either side of him, wedging themselves to hug Liam. Harry wraps himself behind Liam’s back, leaning over the sofa, his hands just touching over Louis’ spine. (Which he’s not thinking about, because this is about Liam.) 

“I ruined your party,” Liam croaks. 

“Shut up,” the rest of them chorus, and Liam lets out a watery laugh. 

\---

They spend the rest of the night playing video games and stuffing themselves with food. Louis tries to stick to the games, mostly, because he doesn’t fancy eating until he’s sick, but to each his own, apparently. Liam doesn’t elaborate on his situation and none of them push. It’s not their place, really, and Liam’s reasonable enough that he’ll tell them when he’s ready. Most likely. And if not, there’s always Louis to pull it out of him. 

Zayn leaves first, no doubt to have to time stop off at Jade and Perrie’s for a late night visit. The thought makes Louis roll his eyes. The party slows after that, and Niall kicks them all out about an hour later. 

“Someone’s got to clean all this,” he says, gesturing to the frankly trashed flat around them. There’s bits of food everywhere as well as beer bottles and general litter. 

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” Harry looks concerned as he asks it, as if Niall couldn’t possibly handle the mess on his own. 

Niall laughs, shakes his head and shoos them out the door. 

Liam comes home with Louis and Harry, at Louis’ insistence. He knows Liam lives with Danielle, and he’s pretty sure the less time Liam spends with her right now, the better. Harry hadn’t seemed to mind. Much, at least. Louis doesn’t really care. He sends Danielle a message from Liam’s phone, just in case, and drives them home.

Normally, Liam would sleep in what is now Harry’s room, or, at least, Liam would try to insist on sleeping there and Louis would drag him into his own room anyway. It’s not _weird_ , because it’s just-- it’s just Liam, who’s shared a bed with Louis more times than either of them can count, and just because Harry suddenly lives there doesn’t make it any different. Really. 

And it’s not like Harry has any fucking right to give him such a dubious look when Louis tugs Liam into the room and closes the door. Fuck him. He had his chance. And he shouldn’t have to explain things with Liam, because Liam is _Liam._ He’s head over fucking heels for Danielle, obviously. Or, was? Whatever. It’s not like Louis’ about to offer him a pity fuck. No thanks. 

“You really don’t have to do this,” Liam says, and Louis rolls his eyes, opening a drawer and pulling out a pair of joggers that have always been too big on him. They’re probably Liam’s, actually, stolen at some point in the past and kept. Anyway. He tosses them over, as well as a shirt and changes into his own pajamas as Liam does. 

“That’s kind of the point, love,” Louis says, tugging his shirt over his head, and Liam doesn’t respond. 

He switches off the light and slides into the bed when they’re both done, Liam sliding in after him and laying on his back, stock still for a moment. Louis snorts, rolls, and fits himself against his side. Liam lets out a breath, and Louis grins. 

“Sorry I’m such a mess,” Liam says. 

“Nothing wrong with needing a bit of a cuddle,” Louis says, squeezing around his waist. And, really, what’s a cuddle between mates? They’re fully clothed and everything! Harry can seriously fuck right off. Liam laughs, puts his arm over Louis’ back and runs his fingertips back and forth, like he’s tracing patterns on Louis’ shoulders. 

“Is that what you do with Harry, then?” Liam’s voice is still soft, but Louis tenses anyway, tilting his head up to glance at Liam. He doesn’t sound anything except concerned. It’s nice, in a way. Also completely infuriating. He should be worried about himself. 

“No,” Louis says, “not anymore.” 

“You want to, though?” 

Ugh. Does Louis want to cuddle Harry? Probably, yes. That’s one of the things he doesn’t think about, though, because if he did let himself think of it, even for a moment, he’d probably plan their whole stupid life together. Pick out the venue for their extravagant wedding and name their future adopted babies. It’s disgusting, hence the ‘not thinking about it’ thing.

“Suppose so.” Louis shrugs. “Not really about what I want though, is it? It’s up to him. Always has been.” 

“It was shit,” Liam says, sudden and louder than before. Louis blinks up at him. “What he did to you, I mean. He treated you really poorly. I think you’re right to still be angry. I would be.” 

The thing is, Louis doesn’t want to be angry at Harry. Really. He doesn’t. He’d love to just let it all go and move on with his fucking life, and maybe get some other hot person to fuck around with. He’d give anything to go a day without thinking about how Harry would wrap himself around Louis as they slept and then just fucking stopped talking to him with no warning. He’d probably sell a kidney, or something. Anything. 

But he can’t. It’s ridiculous, he knows, but he can’t, not when Harry still wanders around like he didn’t break Louis’ fucking heart. Not when Zayn and Niall just look at him like he’s being a twat and should let it go. It only makes him hold onto it more, makes the resentment that much deeper because he didn’t fucking _do anything wrong._

Liam, though, bless him. Liam gets it, and that makes Louis feel almost good enough to consider letting it go. Almost. 

“Thank you,” he says, voice rough, and Liam’s hand presses between his shoulder blades, warm and comforting. 

“Just trying to be half as good a friend as you are,” he responds, and Louis pinches his side, hard. 

“Ow,” Liam says, calm, and Louis does it again. He’s pretty sure Liam knows what it means by the way he settles deeper into the covers, pulling Louis closer. 

\---

Louis wakes on his back, Liam’s face pressed into his chest and his arm snaked around his waist, the rest of his body curled pathetically on the bed. Louis pats his head and tries to roll away. Liam whines and tightens his hold. 

“Liam, love, it’s the morning,” he says softly, running his fingers through Liam’s hair to wake him. He stirs, and there’s a knock on the door. 

“Come in,” Louis yells. Harry’s face peeks around the doorframe, and Louis raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Just wondering if you wanted something specific for breakfast,” he says, but Louis doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger on the hand in Liam’s hair and not on Louis’ face. His fingers clench without his permission and Liam groans, shifts on the bed. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Louis says, but Harry just makes a noise and shakes his head, gaze finally flicking to Louis’ face. Louis can’t read his expression.

“Want to.” 

Louis looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, and shrugs. “Eggs, then. Toast. Tea. I don’t know? Just something.” 

Harry nods, eyes flicking down to Liam again before retreating. Louis lets out a sigh when the door clicks shut. 

“Everything okay?” Liam asks, face still hidden. 

“Fine, I guess. Think Harry might be jealous.” 

Liam snorts. Louis pinches him. 

“Ow.” Liam sits up, pouting at Louis. No, that won’t work. Not this time. He can resist The Eyes. He can.

“You were being rude,” he says, and Liam rolls his eyes. They fall into a companionable sort of silence and Louis takes the time to stretch. 

“So,” Liam says, just as Louis’ back cracks loudly. He winces. He’s really got to start stretching on his days off.

“So what,” he says, moving to sit up against his pillows, stretching his arms out in front of himself and bending at the waist to touch his toes.

“Why would Harry be jealous?” 

Louis waves a hand. “Dunno. Don’t think he is, really. Just something to say, yeah?” 

“I guess,” Liam says in a voice that Louis knows means he doesn’t really believe him. Well. 

“Really, Li. I don’t know. He just looked a bit off.” 

Liam doesn’t say anything, and Louis sighs. (It’s unfair, really, because Liam’s not even using The Eyes right now. Completely unfair.)

“We almost had sex,” he says, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Liam’s face. “Twice.” 

“Wh _at_?” 

“Once, um, once before Worlds. In February, I guess? And then again after he came back. Day he moved in.” 

Liam doesn’t say anything for a long moment and Louis opens his eyes again to look at his face. Liam’s brow is a bit furrowed, his big eyes full of concern. Louis hates that look. He’s so tired of that look. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says, waving a hand again. “I don’t need you to look at me like that. We didn’t actually do anything. I’m not a complete idiot.” 

“No, Louis,” Liam says, shifting to awkwardly grasp Louis’ hand. “I just-- I want you to be careful.” 

“I am.” He is. Mostly. Besides recklessly asking Harry to move in in the first place. Other than that, he’s totally golden. 

“Good, because I don’t fancy beating Harry to a pulp for hurting you again. He’s too pretty for that, yeah?” 

Louis laughs, so loud and unexpected that he chokes. Liam slaps him on the back, which is entirely unhelpful. Twat. 

“Twat,” he says, and Liam smiles at him.

\---

Breakfast is tense. Very, very tense. 

By the time he manages to make it out of his room, Louis’ woken up and changed his clothing-- drool spots in the middle of your t-shirt are never a good look, thanks Liam-- and washed his face and feels-- well, he feels awake, which is nice. Liam’s one of those who’s up when he’s up, so he’s been running around the flat for the half hour that it’s taken Louis to become functional. 

He finds Liam and Harry sitting at the table, plates of food in front of them, staring a bit wearily at each other. It’s very, very odd. 

“This mine, then?” Louis points to the empty chair at the head of the table-- between the two of them-- plate full of food on it. Harry looks at him, his face softening for a moment, and nods. Louis sits and doesn’t think about how weird this all is. 

“So,” Liam says, taking the first bite of his food. Louis hopes it’s not poisoned, or something. Harry doesn’t seem like the type to take someone out with arsenic in pancakes, but that’s the thing about homicide: you never see it coming. 

“Harry, you’re touring this summer, yeah?” 

Harry nods, a little jerkily, “Stars on Ice,” he says, “Mid-June to the end of July, I think.” 

“That’s when Louis and I leave for Asia!” Liam grins at Louis, who tries to smile back. 

“Asia,” Harry says slowly, and Louis’ hand tightens around his fork. Whatever’s coming, it won’t end well. 

“Going to do more adverts, then?” Harry’s eyes are bright, maybe with amusement, but Louis really can’t tell. He chokes out a laugh, but it’s not particularly funny.

“No, mate, probably not. We’re doing The Ice. All that Skate.” You know, the two biggest ice skating exhibitions in Japan and Korea. It’s an honor to be invited. Harry’s probably just jealous that he hasn’t been. “Though I suppose if they asked, I could do a few. It’s good money.” 

“Right,” Harry says, nodding. “Paid for this place for awhile, didn’t it?” 

“Right,” Louis parrots, uneasy, and Liam must sense it, because he clears his throat. 

“You found Louis’ promo, then? The Toyota one?” 

“He showed it to me, yeah,” Harry says, smirking. “It was a good laugh.” 

Liam’s face goes hard at that, and there’s an edge to his voice when he speaks. “It’s perfectly normal. I don’t know a single professional athlete that doesn’t have sponsorships.” 

Louis’ foot finds Liam’s ankle under the table, pressing to it. He doesn’t kick, because he appreciates what Liam’s doing, really, he does, but he’s not some helpless girl in a fairy tale. He doesn’t need saving. 

“It is,” Louis says, and then he laughs. It’s not real, and he knows Liam knows him well enough to know that. “It’s also dead funny, you’ve got to admit.” 

Harry smiles, sharp and like he’s won something, which, no. He hasn’t. There’s nothing for him to win. Louis looks away from him and stands, taking his plate with him. 

“Think I’m done, can I take anyone else’s?” 

“You’ve still got half your plate,” Harry says, frowning. Louis shrugs. 

“Not hungry,” he responds, scraping the rest of the food into the bin. Niall would weep, if he were here. The plate clangs as he throws it in the sink, just a touch too hard.

\---

Liam leaves after breakfast, which isn’t surprising in the least to Louis, because Harry’s an unmitigated arse to him for the rest of the short time he’s there. Louis rounds on him the moment the door’s shut. 

“Are you joking?” Louis snaps it at him, allowing the anger that’s been simmering in his stomach to boil up into something real. 

“Is that how you treat everyone who’s just broken up with their girlfriends, or is Liam just a special case?” He really can’t believe this. In all the time he’s known Harry, he’s never experienced him being rude. He can’t even talk about how Harry treated him. Making fun of the adverts like that, when he _knew_ \--

People change though, obviously, because Harry snorts at him, rolling his eyes. 

“Better than _cuddling_ the heartbreak out of him, isn’t it?” Harry sneers at him, and Louis feels something heavy and leaden drop in his stomach. 

He stills, a hand clenching at his side. Seriously? He’d been mostly kidding when he’d said Harry was jealous earlier, but this is ridiculous. Where the fuck does he get off-- No. Okay. No. 

“I’m only going to say this once,” he says calmly, though he’s a bit amazed at himself, because he doesn’t _feel_ calm. He feels fucking awful. Like his stomach’s about to rip open from the weight of whatever’s settled in it and spill his innards over the floor. He feels tight, electric, tense. Not calm. Furious.

“I’m only going to say this once,” he repeats, clenching his hand tighter, “so you’d better fucking listen. You have _no right_ \-- absolutely none-- to comment on what I do or who I chose to do it with. Do you understand that?” 

Harry’s jaw twitches, his face floods with color but he holds Louis’ gaze. Louis doesn’t blink. 

“Do you _understand_ , Harry?” It’s a bit like speaking to a child, one who’s just done something wrong and has to get lectured by the teacher. Louis is intimately familiar with the feeling of being told off. He can’t imagine Harry is, and maybe that’s the problem. Harry’s acting a bit like a spoiled child, and Louis’ never had patience for that.

“Fine,” Harry says, practically biting it out and turning his head away. “Fine. Fuck if I care.” 

“You do care, though,” Louis says, taking a step closer. He should let it go, he knows. He shouldn’t press it. Louis has never been fond of doing things just because he should, though. “You care and you’ve no right. You gave that up. You had that chance and you fucking threw it away.” 

“I know that!” Harry shouts it, he actually shouts, and turns on Louis fully, his face red. Anger, probably, or maybe humiliation. Anger’s the safest bet. “I know that, so please stop throwing it in my face. I fucked up, Louis, I get it. Are you ever going to let it the fuck go?” 

Louis licks his lips, tilts his chin up. Fuck this. “Are you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because I’m not the one who wanted to jump right back into bed at the first sign of clear fucking skies.” 

Harry laughs at him, loud and rough, maybe a bit incredulous. “You said you forgave me!” 

“Yeah, for deleting my number! Not for-- not for dropping off the face of the Earth!” The last word echoes shrilly off the walls of the flat, making them both jump. Louis takes a breath and continues, quieter. “Christ, Harry. Even if I had you can’t just fucking jump people.” 

Harry at least has the decency to look a bit stricken at that, because, well, Louis hadn’t minded being kissed, really, but it’s the principle of the thing. He could have. He really, really could have. Besides, it’s always nice to be asked. 

“I’m--” Harry frowns, brow creasing. “I’m sorry,” he says, all anger and fight gone from his voice. Not one for arguments, apparently. He slumps a bit, and Louis would almost feel bad, if he thought he had a real reason to feel bad. 

“I’ve acted like a real twat,” Harry says, as if he’s just now realizing it. The 180 throws him for a bit of a loop, but Louis supposes it’s better late than never, or something. Harry looks at him, eyes wide and sincere. “I’m really sorry. You don’t-- you don’t have to forgive me, but I really am sorry.” 

It helps, a little. Helps ease the tightness in Louis’ chest that’s been there for months, and it’s not gone completely, but it helps. ( _Maybe it shouldn’t,_ a voice in his head whispers, digging in. _A bit too quick to apologize, really. Probably shouldn’t trust it._ )

“Thank you,” Louis says quietly, not really sure if he means it. He feels like they should hug, or something, anything instead of just standing awkwardly across from each other in the middle of the room. But that just might be a bit much. The touching. Louis clears his throat. 

“I’m gonna go to my room, I think,” he says, and Harry nods. 

“Um, yeah, me too. I just--” Harry looks at him one last time, pleading, almost. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“Yeah,” Louis says, turning to walk into his room.

\---

Things are a bit fragile, after that. Harry walks around like a puppy that’s been kicked and Louis ignores him, for the most part. Harry still makes breakfast every morning, Louis still eats it, and they still, like, talk, but it’s just stilted. Harry starts walking around fully clothed, which is sort of terrifying in itself. 

It’s all really awful, basically, until Harry comes home one day to find Louis on the couch, watching a compilation of men’s programs that have won medals at the Olympics. He needs inspiration, all right? 

“Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of _Scheherazade_ ,” Harry says, pained, as the music blasts out of the telly’s speakers. 

“Huh? No, of course not, I’m not that ridiculous,” Louis says, pausing the video. He has one of those things that lets you put your computer screen on your television, and really it’s the best $35 he’s ever spent. Handy. Very handy. “And I’m not that desperate.” 

Harry snorts and throws himself down onto the empty space in the couch, and it’s the closest they’ve been to touching in days. Louis flexes his toes, inches away from Harry’s thigh. 

“Good, because you’re good enough without it, you know? Medal bait, all it is.” 

Louis feels himself smile, a wry thing, and he snorts. “Didn’t realize you had so many opinions.” 

“Yeah, well. I think _Scheherazade_ is overused and boring. Unoriginal, you know? What’s the point of skating if you’re just going to skate to the same music everyone else does?” 

Louis doesn’t say anything, just sits and watches Harry with a smile on his face, warmth blooming in his chest. It feels right, that they’re sitting here and bitching about overused music. Maybe not something they used to do together, but something they could do now. It’s nice. 

“No idea, Styles. Don’t see much point in it myself,” he says, closing the few inches between them to shove his toes under Harry’s thigh. Harry doesn’t even startle at the contact, just brings his hand up to rest over Louis’ ankle, thumb absent-mindedly rubbing at the bone. That’s nice too. 

“What’re you skating to, then?” 

Louis blinks at the question, brow creasing. 

“Next season,” Harry clarifies, looking at him and Louis clears his throat. 

“I’m uh, not sure yet.” It’s a lie; he’s fairly sure what he wants to skate to, but he hasn’t run it by Simon yet, or worked on any real choreography. “But I think-- Tabula Rasa? Do you know it?” 

Harry chews his bottom lip and shakes his head, prompting Louis to type it into the search bar of his computer. He hits play and watches Harry as he listens. Harry’s eyes slip closed about thirty seconds into it and only open again once Louis hits pause. 

“Long or short,” Harry says, blinking, and Louis chews his lip. 

“Long. Think I could have a nice footwork sequence,” he says, and Harry nods. 

“Yeah. God. Yeah, Louis, it’d be brilliant,” Harry says, looking at him again, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Louis feels his cheeks heat, and he looks away. 

“Dunno what to do for my short, though,” he says, and Harry squeezes his ankle. 

“You’ll figure it out.” 

Yeah. He really hopes he will.

\---

After that, it becomes a sort of “Then and Now” thing, with them. 

Then, they spent time squeezed together into too-small beds, whispering into each other’s mouths and skin. Now, they sit on the couch-- Louis’ feet shoved under Harry’s thigh or vice versa-- contemplating things like the switch in scoring after the 2006 Olympics or how much peanut butter on a slice of toast is too much. (Harry maintains that there’s no such thing as too much. Louis thinks he’s absolutely mad, and tells him as much.) Then, they bitched about their competition and made fun of their programs. Now, they whine about their pinched toes (Louis) or back problems (Harry) and whine about how Zayn’s smaller than them but can still lift Perrie and skate with her on his shoulder. Without dropping her. (They don’t even discuss Liam, who could throw Danielle in the air and catch her like it was nothing. Ridiculous.) 

Then, their interactions were charged with something, a humming under their skin that led to messy kisses against a wall before performances. A feeling that could have-- or did, maybe-- led to something else, something more than whatever it was they had. 

Now, Louis’ sure whatever that feeling was has fallen dormant, been pushed down into the deep recesses of Louis’ mind so that a different one could replace it. There’s still a bit of _something_ between them, like when they’re pressed from knee to shoulder on the couch, watching something and Louis catches Harry’s gaze flick down to his mouth and feels a bit like he’s been punched in the chest. That’s something, obviously, but it’s easy to ignore in favor of the feeling he gets when Harry laughs at one of his own dumb jokes (or at one of Louis’) or sniffles while they’re watching _Love Actually_ for the tenth time that week. 

It’s easier, being friends. More rewarding. Less dramatic. Just. Easier.

\---

A few weeks later, Louis goes to the rink to help Simon with the day camp for children he runs. It’s a weekend thing that bleeds into a weekday thing during the summer. It’s just turned April, though, so these kids have school and Louis has to come to the rink on a Saturday morning. 

Harry’s not even awake when he leaves at eight-thirty, the lucky bastard. 

Niall’s there when Louis arrives, and he spots his blonde head on the bleachers, sitting and watching what looks like Simon and a new team out on the ice. Niall waves and Louis approaches, but as he does, he recognizes Liam, and a girl he’s never met. 

“Shit.” He mutters it as he sits down, and Niall nods. 

“Yeah. Been here since eight, I think.” Liam must have stayed with Niall if they’re both here at the same time. Good. That’s good. Maybe it’ll help Liam not look so miserable all the time.

“So Danielle’s really leaving, then?” 

Niall nods again, tilting his head in so they can speak quietly. “Yeah. She left yesterday to go sort out some university stuff back in London for the fall. She’ll be back for their tour dates, but…” 

“Shit,” Louis repeats, eyes flicking out over the ice to where Liam and the new girl are both nodding at Simon. Liam looks-- well, not happy, but determined, like he’ll throw this girl in the air and catch her like his life depends on it. Hell, he probably thinks his life does depend on it. 

“What’s her name?” 

Niall raises an eyebrow, and Louis nods to the girl. “Her name?” 

“Oh, Eleanor. Didn’t catch a last one.” 

“Do you think Liam will fall in love with this one?” 

Niall snorts, loud enough that Liam’s head turns toward them. Louis grins and waves, and Liam’s ears go pink. 

“Nah,” Niall says, “I think he’ll be fine.” 

They clear the ice shortly after that, since the camp’s meant to begin at ten and it’s nine already. The ice needs to be zambonied, and they’ll need to warm up, and by then, the families will have started trickling in. This isn’t Louis’ first rodeo. 

It’s about half-nine when Liam walks in, a tentative sort of smile on his face, and Louis throws an extra skate guard at him. 

“You dog!” Liam blinks, confused, and stoops to pick up the guard. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Eleanor,” Louis says, waggling his eyebrows, and Liam flushes pink. Louis grins. He knows, realistically, that Liam’s not just going to jump into something. Hell, he doesn’t even know if Liam and Danielle are properly broken up, but if something makes Liam blush, Louis’ going to press the issue until Liam either a) tells him to stop or b) stops blushing about it. 

“I think, um, I think she’s a good fit, yeah?” 

“And plenty fit herself.” 

Liam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Louis, I don’t think I’m just going to jump headfirst into something like that right after Danielle. No matter how fit she is.” 

A locker slams loudly behind them, making Louis jump and forget whatever it was he was going to say. He tenses as he hears footsteps, thinking maybe Eleanor found her way into the wrong locker room, but it’s just Niall, red-faced and with a twist to his mouth that’s entirely unsettling. 

Louis calls after him, but he doesn’t answer. Odd. “What’s wrong with him?” Louis asks, looking up to Liam. 

Liam shrugs, but he won’t quite meet Louis’ eyes. “Dunno. Bad day, maybe?” 

“Maybe,” he responds, but he can’t help but think he’s being lied to. 

\---

April and May pass without much thought. Louis refreshes his exhibition skates, but he doesn’t need to train for that like he does during the season, so he’s only at the rink three times a week-- four, when he helps Simon out with coaching the camp-- and spends the rest of the time with his friends, enjoying his vacation. 

Except. Except Liam and Niall are still acting a bit odd, especially around each other, but that doesn’t actually matter, because Liam has almost-daily practices with Eleanor, since they’re trying to adjust to each other’s styles before the season begins. They seem to be doing okay, but there’s no telling what the pressure of an actual competition will bring. Niall’s mostly absent outside the rink; he spends his time working on choreography or, surprisingly, helping Simon coach some of his younger talent. Zayn and Perrie spend an obscene amount of time together, and so, as a result, Louis gets stuck with Harry. 

Okay, all right, not _stuck with_ , since they’re on good terms, now. But, still. He’d like to see his friends some of the time, at least, because the more time he spends with Harry, the harder it is to ignore the feeling between them that means he wants to kiss Harry stupid. It’s really inconvenient, actually. 

“Think Caroline and Nick are going to come visit,” Harry tells him one day as they’re eating lunch. Louis doesn’t choke on the arugula in his salad, but it’s a very near thing. 

“Yeah?” He glances up at Harry, who’s looking at him nervously, like Louis would really be enough of an arse to say they can’t stay here. Or, visit in general or something.

“Yeah,” Harry repeats, and Louis shrugs. 

“Just as much your place as it is mine,” he says, and Harry lets out a breath, smiling. 

“I don’t think they’d stay here,” he says, fork scraping the bottom of his bowl, “I think they’d get a hotel, but I just like, wanted to ask. Because they’d probably visit, you know. Maybe at the end of August?” That doesn’t make much sense, actually, because Louis’ going to be out of the country from July to the end of August. Why wouldn’t they plan their trip for that time? Whatever. It’s not Louis’ business, really, so he doesn’t say anything.

He shrugs again. “Like I said, it’s your place too. I really don’t mind.” And he doesn’t. Not much, at least. He doesn’t really know Harry’s friends, so it’d make him a real jerk to pass judgement on them, as much as he might want to. God, is this what growing up feels like? Louis hates it. 

“Cool,” Harry says, still smiling, and maybe Louis hates growing up a little less if he can make Harry smile like that. 

“We should have a party,” he says, apropos of nothing, and Harry raises an eyebrow. 

“For Caroline and Nick?” 

“No. Well, yes, maybe, if we have it when they’re here, they can come, obviously, but I mean, just in general. I feel like I haven’t seen anyone in weeks, you know?” 

“Probably because you haven’t,” Harry says, taking a drink of his water, and Louis waves a hand.

“Exactly! So, a party. Beach barbeque?” 

“Do you know how to use a grill?” 

“No, but how hard can it be?” 

\---

Extremely hard, as it turns out. 

Louis is actually glad that Harry convinced him to practice on the grill that Aiden left when he moved, because even getting the thing lit properly had turned into a near disaster. He almost lost his eyebrows. _And_ his fringe. Very important parts of his face! As it is, they’re just a bit singed, and he was due for a trim anyway, so it’s not a big deal. Besides, Harry had nearly pissed himself laughing, and the sound had filled Louis’ chest with a familiar warmth. 

He’s still laughing, actually, ten minutes later.

“You do it, then,” Louis snaps, just because he can. Harry takes the spatula and lighter, still chuckling, and swats Louis on the arse with it. 

“Inside, then. Fetch me the meat.” 

Louis goes, grumbling about ungrateful curly-headed menaces, and is rewarded with another laugh from Harry, the noise following him all the way to the kitchen. 

They eat grilled chicken-- nothing fancy, but the marinade Harry’d insisted they soak it in is probably one of the best things Louis has ever eaten. And he’s eaten a lot of things. 

“S’good, Haz,” he says, mumbling through his food. He’s a heathen, he knows. “Seriously. If this whole skating thing doesn’t work out, you could be a chef.” 

Harry snorts. “Think I’ll stick to the skating,” he says, smirking. “But thanks, Lou.” 

Louis shrugs. “It’s nothing.” And really, it is.

\---

June sneaks up on them. They fall into a sort of routine: wake, eat, go to rink, daily errands, eat, more errands, eat, putter around at home for a few hours, sleep, repeat. 

Sometimes their rink time doesn’t actually involve the ice, but Louis’ there almost every day, working on the concept for each of his programs before he can even think about properly choreographing any of them. Jesy’s an invaluable sounding board, and absolutely excellent at helping him figure out his concepts, and even more useful when he starts choreographing. She usually works with Jade and Leigh-Anne as well, so Louis spends quite a bit of time with all three of them, and, as it turns out, Eleanor, who’s been adopted onto Team Simon easily. Louis can tell why. She’s sharp and funny, but also incredibly sweet. She makes a good match with Liam, partner-wise, and she’s always game for a laugh. 

Anyone who laughs at Louis’ jokes is all right in his book, after all. 

He invites them all to lunch one day, but ends up going to get sushi with just Eleanor. 

“No, I’m not going to eat raw fish with you, Louis, love, I’m sorry,” Jesy had said and Leigh-Annie nodded behind her in agreement. Jade had some “previous engagement” but whatever. It was fine, Louis could handle a girl one-on-one. It’s not as if he was afraid of them. Used to tell himself he liked them, actually, and he did, maybe, but then he kissed one too many boys for that to be explicitly true. 

He could like Eleanor, though. Maybe even date her for awhile, but it’s all too casual. There’s not a point to it if it’s just casual. So. Friends it is. 

Right. Glad he decided that. 

Eleanor does look good in his car, though, her long thin legs stretched out in front of her, her hair blowing softly with the window down, her big sunglasses reflecting the image of the LA skyline as they drive into the city. It’s just nice. Pleasant. Louis feels himself smiling at nothing and listening to her talk about her old partner. 

“He was nice, yeah, but we didn’t really click. Never got to that place, you know? Even after five years.” 

Louis doesn’t know, not really, but he can imagine not being in sync with someone really puts a strain on a partnership, especially when you’re competing at the level that they do. 

“That’s a pity,” Louis says, turning down a street and trying to find somewhere to park. “But you and Liam are working well?” 

“I think so,” she says hesitantly. “Oh! There’s a spot!” She points to it and Louis nods, turning his blinker on to begin the awful process of parallel parking. 

“You think so?” he urges, pulling in neatly by the curb. He gets out, running around to her side to open the door for her and offering a hand out. She takes it with a smile, and he shuts the door, locking it, and leading her into the restaurant. She doesn’t answer his question until they’ve been seated, which is fine, because he doubts he would’ve really been paying attention to the answer.

“He’s been a bit distracted, lately,” she says, and it takes a moment for Louis to catch up. 

“Liam has?” He frowns as she nods. “It’s not surprising. He and Danielle were...close.” 

“They were dating, right?” 

“Yeah. Don’t think they are, anymore.” 

Eleanor frowns at that, chewing her lip. “No. I suppose he wouldn’t be very focused then, would he?” 

“I’d probably be a right mess, if I’m honest.” 

Eleanor smiles at him, nods. “You’re pretty good at that whole--” she makes a vague hand gesture, “-- thing, you know?”

“Can’t say I do,” Louis says, snorting and Eleanor rolls her eyes. 

“Motivational thing. Comfort, I guess. Reassurance?” 

“Ah,” Louis smiles, ducks his head a bit. “Can’t say anyone’s ever told me that.” 

“Hm. That’s a pity,” she says, and Louis looks back up at her.

“Yeah, I suppose it is.” 

Their lunch goes nicely, even if they are papped outside the restaurant together. Louis doesn’t care, not really, because it’s not like he has anything to hide. He’s having lunch with a friend, first off, and second, why the hell do the paps care anyway? He’s rarely photographed, unless it’s an exceptionally slow news day, or they mistake him for someone else. 

“Maybe they thought someone famous was in there,” he says, and Eleanor laughs. 

“I think I saw Brad Pitt in the corner, actually,” she says, and Louis gasps. 

“And you didn’t tell me? That’s it, get out of my car. You can walk back.” 

She laughs, and Louis lets the sound wash over him as he pulls out into traffic and takes them back to the rink.

\---

It’s a few days later when the candids rear their ugly heads. 

Harry’s browsing his phone at the table and Louis is staring into his tea, willing it to cool down just a touch so he can drink it and not feel like a zombie. He’s just taken a scalding sip when Harry makes a noise at his phone, his eyes widening. 

“Um, all right there, Haz?” 

Harry’s head snaps up, eyes widening. 

“You’re on Perez Hilton?” 

Louis snorts. Harry keeps looking at him, though and he frowns, confused. He leans across the table, snatching Harry’s phone to look at the article. 

There it is. A picture from the other day, Louis leading Eleanor out of the restaurant, a hand at the small of her back and both of their heads ducked at the onslaught of camera flashes. A bunch of crude hearts have been drawn around them, as well as some question marks. What the fuck? 

_SUSHI SOULMATES???_

And under it, a sub-heading:

 _Britain’s Favorite Men’s Singles Skater, Single No More???_

“Oh, you have got to be joking,” Louis says, reading the rest of the blurb, which basically implies that he and Eleanor are _dating_ , even though they’ve been to one lunch. They don’t even have a fake source confirming the relationship. Really, what kind of gossip is that??

“Must have been a slow news day,” he says, tempted to throw the phone back to Harry, but no, it’s not his. It’s Harry’s phone, and Harry would probably literally murder him if he broke it. He slides it across the table to him and picks up his tea. One benefit to that, then: his tea’s cooled enough to drink. 

Harry’s still looking down at the article, though, this strange pinched look on his face. “Lou,” he says, and Louis raises an eyebrow. Harry takes a deep breath. 

“I’m not asking because, like-- I’m not-- It’s just--” Harry’s face twists, and Louis sighs. If Harry’s jealous again, Louis might throw his tea on him. Well, probably not, because that’s a waste of tea, but he would yell. Maybe. Or just mope. Anyway.

“Spit it out, then, for fuck’s sake.” 

“You’d tell me, right?” It comes out in a rush, or as much of a rush as Harry can muster, and Louis blinks at him. 

“What?” 

“You’d like, tell me. If there was someone.” Louis blinks again, stunned, and Harry continues, “Like, I know I don’t have a right, or whatever, but just-- as your friend? You’d tell me? Because you’re my best friend, and that’s the sort of thing that--” 

“Yes,” Louis says, putting him out of his misery. Harry stops, closes his mouth and inhales. He looks grateful, but that could also be Louis’ imagination. “Yeah, Harry, of course I would. Tell you, I mean. Especially if I thought there might be a chance you’d find out some other way first.” 

Louis doesn’t mention the probability of actually going on a date is so small that he wouldn’t even have anything to tell Harry. But he would. If he like, had feelings for someone. He’d tell Harry. He hopes Harry would be kind enough to return the favor. Harry doesn’t say anything, though, just nods and looks back down at his phone. Louis bites his lip and kicks his shin until he looks up. 

“You’re mine too, you know,” he says, and Harry frowns, clearly lost. “Best friend, I mean. You’re mine too.” 

Harry’s smile slides across his face, slow but no less bright or disarming than any of his others. He’s still smiling as he looks down at his phone again, typing something out. 

“Cool,” he says into the screen, and Louis smirks behind the rim of his mug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a mess and so is this word count. [come say hi!](http://jessimond.tumblr.com)


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! the usual: big thanks to my beta, big thanks to you guys, any remaining mistakes are mine. this is all for fun and fake, and please don't show any one connected to the boys. this chapter is massive and I'm not sorry about it. 
> 
> also, **warning** : for a depiction of a mild panic/anxiety attack in this chapter. be safe! 
> 
> enjoy!

Louis comes home from his stint in Asia feeling better than he has in a long time. 

Surprisingly enough skating for people who actually want to see a real performance-- as opposed to watching some poor soul struggle through a competitive program with a certain number of required elements set to boring music-- and not being graded on the outcome can really refresh one’s appreciation for their sport. Who knew? 

The point is, Louis comes home from Korea refreshed, relaxed and ready to take on the season. 

And, apparently, with an affinity for alliteration. Right. 

Seriously though. Louis doesn’t even care that he’s coming home to the world’s most sexually frustrating flatmate. He doesn’t care that he hasn’t seen three of his best friends in a month, or that Liam regressed back into a state of perpetual unhappiness and constantly invading Louis’ bed for cuddles because _nothing will ever be like skating with Dani, Louis, I should just retire_. Louis doesn’t care that his eyes had nearly popped out of their sockets with how hard he’d rolled them when Liam snuffled on his shoulder for the first half of the flight. He doesn’t care that he doesn’t even get a full day of Harry before Nick and Caroline will arrive tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t. Because he is refreshed, relaxed and rejuvenated. 

And maybe just the tiniest bit hysterical, but that’s probably just the lack of sleep. 

The hysterical feeling-- the pressure that starts in his chest and bubbles out through his legs and arms and even his throat, manifests itself in twitches, jiggles, shaking hands and nervous laughter at the slightest provocation-- only grows as they get closer and closer to landing. Liam’s looking at him like he’s absolutely mad, and fuck, he probably is. He has no real reason to be acting this way, not really, except that he hasn’t seen Harry in two months (because Harry’s tour was the month before Louis’ and Louis left before Harry got back) and he is, apparently, a pathetic excuse for a human being. 

Harry, for his part, seems to be just as pathetic, judging by the way Louis’ phone erupts with notifications once it’s safe to turn it on. 

A tiny, vicious, disparaging part of Louis thought that maybe Harry would do it again, that he’d just fuck off without so much as a word and leave Louis hanging _again_. That part had been pretty sufficiently squashed when Harry had texted him a photo of the inside of the Vegas airport hardly two hours later. It was only a picture of a slot machine, and a simple _**should I risk it??**_ underneath, but the relief that had crashed over Louis had been too much to ignore. He’d had to sit down before typing out a reply, for God’s sake. 

So, there’s that.

Anyway, Louis’ phone nearly explodes in his hand and Liam’s brow creases so deeply that Louis is actually a bit afraid that it’ll stick that way. He feels still, suddenly, and it’s a moment before he realizes he’s stopped bouncing his leg up and down. Right.

“What?” It comes out harsher than he means, and Liam’s mouth twists. Oh, whatever. “I mean, sorry. But what?” 

“Just wondering who’s so eager for your attention, is all,” Liam says, unbuckling his belt and standing to stretch. 

Louis lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head back to look at him. The movement of his leg starts up again. “What makes you think it’s all one person?” 

Liam shrugs. “Nothing. I was just curious, sorry.” He sounds sheepish about it, which Louis supposes isn’t unnatural for Liam, and yeah, maybe he feels bad about it. But only a little.

“It’s mostly Harry,” he says quietly, and Liam hums in response. He sits back down, sliding his hand over Louis’ knee, stopping it. Louis catches his gaze, but his expression is unreadable. Liam stares for a second, mouth just a bit open, like he might say something. He inhales, and Louis feels himself leaning forward, minimally, but Liam snaps his mouth closed and looks away. Louis blinks. Bizarre. 

Liam looks back at him, grins. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” 

“Oh, piss off,” Louis laughs, and socks him in the shoulder. Liam rubs a hand over it, but they both know it didn’t hurt him at all.

Louis glances down at his phone, to attempt to read the barrage of messages, but a flight attendant opens the door,and all he has time to do is send a quick _landed, deboarding now, see you soon!_ to Harry, who’s picking him up. The next few minutes are a bustle of grabbing his carry-on and pushing into the jumble of people in the aisle behind Liam. 

LAX is a madhouse on a good day, so Louis doesn’t notice that Harry hasn’t responded to his message until they’re actually leaving the baggage claim. Louis pulls out his phone to ask where he is-- he’s not disappointed that Harry hadn’t been waiting for them at the bottom of the escalator with a cheesy sign, _honestly_ \-- and sees their conversation stuck on Louis’ last message. He checks his WhatsApp, just to make sure, and frowns when he realizes Harry’s last activity was hours ago. As in, five hours ago. 

“Everything alright?” Louis feels the press of Liam’s fingertips to his shoulder, and he blinks, fixing his expression into something more neutral before answering. 

“Yeah, fine,” he says, giving Liam a smile before going back to his phone. He scrolls up to his last message and reads down, rolling his eyes at the fact that the messages seem to mostly be song lyrics-- seriously Harry, _John Mayer_?-- and questions about banal things. He gets to the last, though, around the eight hour mark, which must’ve been when Louis was in the middle of the fucking flight, and reads:

_**fuck sorry change of plan i’m the worst can’t pick you and liam up** _

and

_**god i’m so sorry i’ll ask niall and clean the flat for the rest of the year** _

and

_**jesus ok niall couldn’t do it but zayn will be there I promise I gave him the info I’m so sorry tell liam i said sorry oh god**_

Louis takes a deep breath, closes the messages and locks his phone, slides it into his pocket before looking up to Liam. He wraps his hand around the strap of his bag and adjusts it on his shoulder.

“Zayn’s picking us up,” he says, and he’s fucking proud of how normal his voice sounds. 

“Zayn?” Liam looks around, probably for Zayn, but he’s frowning, Louis can hear it in his tone. “I thought Harry--” 

“Change of plan, apparently.” Louis watches a woman in a nice business suit and a phone plastered to her ear slides into a sleek black sedan with a grin. She puts the phone down to lean over the console and kiss the driver. Her husband, probably. Louis clenches his hand again, and ignores the roar of his own heart beat pounding in his ears. 

He feels Liam’s hand on his shoulder again, and he turns, smiles again, but he can feel how unnatural it must look. Strained and sharp. 

Liam’s brow scrunches together as he asks why. 

“Something came up,” Louis lies. Liam doesn’t ask what. 

\---

If there’s a word to describe how absolutely furious Louis feels as he sits in the backseat of Zayn’s car, he can’t think of it. All he can think of, actually, is the hollow place in his chest where all his hysterical excitement has been carved out and replaced with bitter, crushing disappointment. All he can think of is Harry muttering _yeah, yeah, of course I’ll be there Lou,_ into his hair at the airport when he was flying to Vegas and that seems like so long ago, now. It must have been a long time, because there’s no explanation for how utterly fucking pissed Louis is about this. 

It’s not entirely rational, he knows. He _knows_ that, and yet, here he is, sitting in the back of Zayn’s car, nearly sick to his stomach with rage while Liam and Zayn chat up front about being on tour and the fucking weather in Korea and _christ_ , Louis hates this. He feels heavy from exhaustion and anger and everything else. To think, when he’d woken up, he’d felt ready to take on the fucking world. Now all he wants is to go back to his flat and break everything in sight. 

God, what is wrong with him? Surely Harry shouldn’t have this much of an effect on his mood. On his behavior. Because Louis doesn’t go around getting angry about things. He’ll get annoyed, sure, or irritated, but it never sticks. He never gets this angry. Ever. 

Zayn drops him off outside his building. Louis leans in the open window to kiss the top of his head in thanks and waves at Liam. He walks slowly, opting for the stairs instead of the elevator, hauling his bags up each step even though he’s fairly certain he’s going to collapse in on himself at any moment. 

He should give Harry the benefit of the doubt. He should. He knows that. He probably will, even, especially since his anger’s slowly dissipating with every step he takes up the stairs. By the time he’s reached the fourth floor landing, he’s panting a bit, his limbs are aching, and all he wants is a scalding shower and sleep. So much sleep. 

While unlocking the door, Louis doesn’t even let himself consider what will happen if Harry’s on the couch or in the kitchen or anywhere except his room, really, with the door closed so Louis doesn’t have to see him. It turns out it doesn’t matter, because once he pushes through, the flat’s dark and empty, the late afternoon sun just barely peeking in through the curtains. He doesn’t look for a note as he moves through, just goes to his room, dumps his suitcase on the floor and pulls a pair of joggers and a t-shirt out of his dresser before moving into the bathroom. 

Scalding hot shower, then sleep. He’ll feel better. He will. 

\---

Louis wakes with a jolt, groggy and disoriented. The room around him is dark, but it smells familiar, like his own laundry detergent and body wash, so he inhales a slow breath, exhales, and relaxes back into the pillows. 

A crash from outside his door makes him tense again, and he realizes, right, that’s probably what woke him in the first place. He should probably check that out. Or like, get murdered. Those seem like the two most likely options. (He really needs more sleep.) 

He finds his glasses on his bedside table, shoves them on his face and blinks at the clock. Glowing green numbers inform him that it’s 4:28 in the fucking morning. 

Louis is going to disembowel whoever woke him up.

For once his door doesn’t creak when it opens, and he shuffles out into the short corridor to see what the hell’s going on. 

He finds Harry at the kitchen table, crouched over his phone, the light shining onto his face, making him look ridiculous, like a kid at camp telling scary stories, and through his half-asleep haze, all Louis can think is: _I want to kiss you._

He’s not sure how long he stands there, staring, until Harry lifts his head up and spots him. Harry smiles, slow, like honey making its way to the bottom of the jar. Lit from the bottom, it looks almost grotesque. 

“Lou,” he says, with no small amount of slur to it, and his phone screen shuts off, plunging them into abrupt darkness. 

Louis blinks, hears a muttered curse and the shuffling of feet and furniture before the overhead light switches on, blinding him. He groans, bringing a hand up to cover his face. 

“Fuck, Harry, what’s the matter with you?” It’s not entirely rhetorical.

“Lots of things, probably,” he hears Harry’s voice answer, much closer than it had been before. It’s followed by the pressure of Harry’s arms wrapping around him, the sudden onslaught of Harry’s scent-- cologne, sweat, Louis’ detergent-- both so unexpected that his breath catches in his throat. 

“Missed you,” Harry mumbles in his ear, his breath hot and whiskey-scented. Louis feels himself tense. He’s not sure which is worse: the fact that Harry blew him off to get drunk or the fact that he can’t even make himself be angry about it. 

“You’re drunk,” he says, without much bite to it. It’s four-thirty in the morning; he can’t have this fight right now. He doesn’t want to have this fight right now. Or ever, for that matter. 

“Not really,” Harry answers, but he’s made a liar by the way he sways forward. Louis’ hands come up to his waist automatically, steadying him. He ignores the whine that slips out of Harry’s mouth, because if he’s drunk then it was completely unintentional, and Louis knows that. 

“Well, seeing how I’ve just gotten back from _Korea_ ,” Louis says into Harry’s neck, relishing in the way he goes tense under his hands, “I’m going back to bed.” He lets go, taking a step back. Harry sways forward again, but Louis stays where he is. 

“You probably should too,” he adds, taking another step back, and another, until he’s right next to his door. “Big day tomorrow. People to entertain.” _Friends to pick up from the airport,_ he wants to say, but doesn’t. 

Harry doesn’t offer an explanation as Louis opens his door to slip back into his bedroom. Louis doesn’t hear anything, actually, except for Harry’s shuffle into his own room, the quiet click of his door closing. Or maybe he just imagines it. Who knows? He’s asleep before he has time to really consider it.

\---

He wakes again to the faint sound of running water, undercut by the rumble of a low voice, singing. Harry, then. Louis rolls over to look at his clock, squinting until the numbers clear. 

11:33. 

Huh. Not as bad as 4:30, that’s for sure, and considering Louis went to sleep somewhere around six last night, his schedule probably isn’t as fucked as it could’ve been. Pretty good, all in all. 

He rolls out of bed, opting for the glasses again instead of messing with contacts, and makes his way out into the kitchen. He doesn’t actually know how to cook much besides toast and like, salads, but those don’t require much actual cooking, and he doesn’t want a fucking salad right now anyway. 

He makes himself a bowl of cereal-- Lucky Charms and Fruit Loops mixed in one bowl, his last act of dietary rebellion before the season starts up again-- and sits down at the table. 

Harry comes in not much later while Louis’ browsing his Twitter feed, towel wrapped around his naked hips and his hair still dripping slightly onto his shoulders. 

“You’ll need a haircut before the season starts,” Louis says in greeting, and Harry runs a hand through his flattened curls. 

“Reckon so,” he says, just the tiniest bit hesitant, like he’s not sure whether or not Louis will throw his cereal bowl at him. He considered it, true, but he’d probably miss, and then someone would have to pick up the pieces. 

“Feeling better?” Louis asks, eyes flicking back to his feed, skimming mostly, since almost all of it is people congratulating him or random bits of news articles. Or Niall talking about food. He catches Harry’s name, though, and a simple _shocking_ before a link to an instagram photo. The timestamp on the tweet is 4:15pm, yesterday, just when Louis would’ve sent him the text from the airport. Anger, white-hot and searing, twists in his chest. 

He shouldn’t click on the link. 

He clicks the link. 

It takes him to a picture, obviously, but it’s a picture of two women, rail thin and fashionable, under a neon sign shaped like a lightning bolt. Louis isn’t sure where they are, but he focuses on one of the women, the lighter haired of the two, with large (but not particularly unattractive) eyebrows. 

That’s. 

That’s _Cara Delevingne_ , and some other woman, and Harry blew him off to get drunk with Cara fucking Delevingne. What the actual fuck. 

He takes a deep breath, exhales, and then takes in another.

“Louis?” 

He looks up to see Harry looking at him, frowning a little, and like he’s concerned, maybe. Louis can’t even imagine what he looks like right now. It’s probably unpleasant. And worrying, apparently, since Harry’s looking at him like he’s sprouted another head. 

Louis turns the laptop toward him, tilts the screen up. “Is this why you couldn’t be arsed to pick us up, then?” 

Harry’s eyes flick down to the screen briefly before meeting Louis’. “I--” he says, but Louis shakes his head, cutting him off. 

“You what? You didn’t think I’d see it? Didn’t think I’d fucking find out that you blew us off to have drinks with _Cara Delevingne_ for-- for, God, _twelve hours_?” Louis scoffs, and slams his laptop shut. Twelve hours. Louis knows Harry must have seen that message, the one he sent from the plane. He saw it and didn’t even have the courtesy to respond. God. _Fuck._

“Dinner took awhile,” Harry mumbles, and Louis can’t even laugh at that, which is a pity because it’s one of the stupidest things he’s ever heard. 

“Oh,” he says, tone sharp and condescending. “Dinner took awhile. I’m sorry for you, then, that dinner took awhile. I hope it was fantastic, though. I hope it was fucking worth it.” 

Harry sighs, runs a hand down his face, but doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have anything to say, apparently. Well. It’s not like that’s a new trait. 

“Was it worth it?” Louis should let it go, he knows. He’s not even really-- well, no, he is mad, but it’s not the same. It’s not like it was yesterday, when he felt like it would consume him and burn him up and leave a charred corpse for someone to find. He’s just-- God, Harry couldn’t even fucking tell him. But still. He should let it go. He shouldn’t needle. 

Yeah, fuck that. He’s going to anyway. 

“Was the food good?” He watches Harry carefully, waiting. “Did the drinks have enough alcohol? I can’t imagine Cara Delevingne would go anywhere that skimps on the liquor, yeah? Did you go back to hers after for a nightcap?” 

“She’s got a girlfriend,” Harry says, still not looking at Louis, and that hadn’t been exactly what he was implying, but fine, whatever, he’ll take it. 

“Great, good for her, but you never told me, Harry, darling.” His voice goes low, sweet and dangerous. “Was it worth it?” 

Harry looks at him then, mouth a thin line, eyes hard. Louis meets the gaze and lets the silence hang, suspended between them and suffocating. 

Harry looks away first. Of course he does.

“It was her only free night,” he says, voice laced with the sort of resignation that means he knows he can’t win. 

Louis laughs, a harsh sound that feels more like a grunt than anything else. “And God knows if someone’s only got one free night you have to spend twelve hours with them.” 

The line of Harry’s mouth goes thinner, if that’s possible, and Louis sees the muscle in his bicep twitch, and follows the line of his arm down to his hand, clenched tightly by his thigh. Good. 

“Everyone knows you can’t possibly do two things in one day,” Louis continues, because he doesn’t know when to fucking stop, never has. “Not if one of them is fucking off around LA with your posh designer friends. Oh no, impossible, isn’t it? To schedule a dinner after following through with plans you’ve made _months in advance_ \--” 

“You’re impossible!” The volume of Harry’s voice startles them both, and it knocks the breath out of Louis. He inhales, slowly exhales, and looks at Harry again. Harry, whose face is red and a little blotchy and whose eyes are shining and wet. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Louis is the worst person in the world. He is, he really is, because this is the second time he’s made Harry cry since moving in, and God, maybe Harry was right to stop talking to him two years ago. Especially if this is how he treated him. 

“I can’t fucking win with you,” Harry says, or croaks, really, because it’s obvious he’s trying not to cry. Louis feels his limbs fill with shame, heavy and sickening. “I don’t think anyone can, fuck, Louis.” 

“You said you’d be there,” Louis says flatly, because it’s the only real defense he has left. 

“I know,” Harry says, flopping into the chair across from him. Louis realizes that he’s still just in his towel. He bites down the urge to laugh. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry adds, reaching out across the table, hand stopping just in front of Louis’, barely brushing. “Really, Louis. I’m sorry. I just--” 

He sighs, and Louis leans forward, tangling their fingers together. Harry smiles, a tiny thing, and Louis is glad for the table between them, since it’s the only thing keeping him from crawling into his lap to apologize. God. 

“You just,” Louis prods, squeezing Harry’s fingers lightly. 

“I just thought it might be easier,” Harry says, running his thumb over the side of Louis’. It sends a shiver up Louis’ arm and down his spine. “If I didn’t have to like, see you, and then leave. You know? I missed you so much, and it’d been-- I mean, two months, yeah? What was a few more hours?” 

Harry laughs, and Louis inhales a breath, starved for air without even realizing it. 

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing Harry’s hand again. “Yeah, I get it, Haz. I just-- I missed you a lot too.” He pauses, staring at their linked hands on the table. 

“And I’m sorry,” he says finally, looking up at Harry. “Those things I said, I-- That was really wrong. And stupid.” 

Harry makes some sort of noise, like a scoff maybe, and opens his mouth, but Louis shakes his head. 

“No, seriously,” he says, “it wasn’t what I should’ve said. It’s just easier for me to get angry, I think. Instead of just like, saying what I really feel.” 

Harry snorts at that, giving Louis’ hand a tug. “I think that’s pretty universal, Lou.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, lips twitching upwards in the suggestion of a smile. “No, I know that you tit. But I’m just saying that I don’t want to be angry anymore, yeah? It’s not worth it.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, “I know what you mean.” 

Louis actually smiles at that, and looks away for a moment. He can do this. He can be a person that doesn’t get angry at everything Harry does. He can be rational and thoughtful and an adult, for once in his fucking life. It’ll be fine. Really. 

\---

The rest of the morning is a little odd. 

Not because Harry’s still only wearing the towel-- which is a little strange, granted, but Louis’ used to it-- but because Louis doesn’t really know how to be void of all anger. 

It’s not like he was expecting to like, just take a deep breath and have it all be gone, but more that he doesn’t really know the boundaries of it. As in, the difference between real anger and mild irritation that won’t actually come to a head. He’s a big believer in the healthy rant, so it’s not as if he wants to start repressing all of his feelings, but it’s just...complicated. He doesn’t want to hurt Harry more than he’s already hurt Harry, intentionally or unintentionally, so he’s sort of morphed, for the time being, into someone that’s not really him. Someone quiet. 

It’s been hardly half an hour, but he can tell it’s throwing Harry off as well. 

“You know,” Harry says, lifting his spoon to his mouth-- he’s got Cheerios with slices of banana in, the healthy show off, “I’m definitely on board with the less anger plan, but you don’t have to like, change your whole personality.” 

Louis raises an eyebrow at him as he chews. God, what a weirdo. He lives with such a weirdo. A weirdo that can read him better than anyone he’s ever met. 

“I mean, the teasing, and stuff,” he says finally, always too polite to talk with his mouth full, even though it’s just Louis. “I don’t think that’s really like, anger, you know? I think that’s just you.” 

Louis smirks to cover any sign of relief on his face. “So you’re saying you like it when I’m a little mean to you, Haz?” 

Harry’s cheeks bloom a dusty pink, like those specialty roses they sell around Valentine’s Day, and Louis’ smirk grows. 

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, looking down into his bowl. “God knows why, though.” 

“Nothing wrong with liking to be roughed up. Physically or emotionally,” Louis says, purely for the way Harry’s blush deepens. An unfortunate side effect is, of course, the barrage of images that his own words inspire. Harry, wrecked and unfairly beautiful, on his knees. That same deep pink flush down Harry’s chest, lovebites littering his pale skin, bruises in the shape of Louis’ fingertips on his hips. Louis hates his imagination.

He shifts in his chair and thinks of, God, anything else besides that. Simon naked. Simon naked in an ice bath. Simon naked in an ice bath with Greg. Just. Anything. 

“I take it back,” Harry says, voice coming out a bit rough. Louis can sympathize. “No teasing. Only silence.” 

Louis laughs, and Harry’s answering smile is wide and pleased. 

\---

Harry leaves shortly after to pick up his friends. He invites Louis along with him, but Louis refuses, claiming jet lag and the need to unpack and no, really, don’t worry about it Harry, he’ll meet them later, at the party, yeah. Harry only looks a tiny bit disgruntled as he walks out the door, so Louis counts it as a win. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to meet Harry’s friends. Really. Technically he already knows Caroline, albeit in a very distanced way (except for the memory of her flushed, surprised face when Louis had walked in on them that one time), and he likes her just fine. He’s not so sure about Nick, though. He doesn’t know Nick, obviously, even though Harry’s told him he’s some radio DJ in London, very popular. Louis doesn’t listen to radio broadcasts in America, there’s no chance in hell he’d listen to one from London. 

Besides, he’s not sure how to feel about someone who very directly deepened the chasm between Harry and himself. The one they’re still trying to cross. 

But, he supposes that Nick didn’t _force_ Harry to delete his number. That’s the game, isn’t it? And if Harry had really wanted to keep Louis at that point, he would’ve chosen that, Nick or no Nick. So Louis can give him the benefit of the doubt, he supposes. For now. 

He putters around the flat for awhile, toying with the idea of going through his luggage and doing some washing, but ends up on the couch instead, flicking through his Twitter feed, laptop perched on his stomach. Most of it still doesn’t interest him, but his eye catches again on Harry’s name, a retweet this time, but another link to a picture. 

_Looking good_ , the caption reads, and Louis rolls his eyes before he clicks the link because seriously, can Harry and his friends get more ridiculous? Probably, actually, so maybe Louis shouldn’t push his luck. 

The picture loads and Louis glances at it, rolling his eyes again at the stupid headband Harry has wrapped around his head and the arm wrapped around Cara’s shoulders. They’re both pulling faces for the camera, mock-serious model duck face numbers, and Louis’ about to click out of it when he notices the familiar design of Harry’s shirt. 

Or, _his_ shirt, he should say. Louis’ shirt. Louis’ fucking Joy Division shirt. 

He’s not sure how he didn’t notice it last night, but he supposes he was more than half-asleep and wasn’t really focused on what Harry was wearing. Wasn’t focused on much of anything except Harry’s presence itself. 

And, God, Harry wore his shirt, _Louis’ shirt_ out with Cara fucking Delevingne in the middle of LA, and there are probably paparazzi photos of it, of him wearing Louis’ shirt _in public_. Like, actual proof that they’re-- that they’re friends, or whatever, not that anyone knows it’s Louis’ shirt besides Louis, but still. God. He really must be jetlagged, still, if he’s getting this emotional over a fucking article of clothing. 

Louis takes a deep breath, closes out of the photo, shuts his laptop and puts it on the coffee table. He presses his hands over his eyes, takes another breath and exhales. 

He’s so fucked. 

\---

In order to distract himself from how utterly messed up his life’s gotten, Louis opens the e-mail from Simon with the team’s Grand Prix assignments. He usually gets Skate Canada and NHK Trophy, which means he never makes it to the Grand Prix Final, because he can never place higher than fifth at either of those. Not with bloody Patrick Chan and Daisuke Takahashi and Yuzuru Hanyu. The Americans, at least, seem to have lost most of their stars in men’s singles, which Louis thanks the universe for every day. 

In any case, it’s highly competitive, and Louis’ never made it to the final. He has plans to change that, this year. 

He scans the list, skimming over everyone else’s assignments until he gets to his own, chewing on his bottom lip. Cup of China and Trophee Eric Bompard. Beijing and Paris. Two places he’s never competed, and, apparently, British Nationals are the weekend after the Trophee Eric Bompard. He usually has more than a week in between competitions, but if he goes to Paris, he can easily go to his Mum’s and train there for the rest of the week. It’ll be strange, but not completely undoable. Louis knows Simon has contacts all over the world. He probably knows someone in Manchester who will let him train for two days. 

(Hell, maybe he won’t even try to train that much. Maybe he’ll just let himself rest. God knows he’ll need it by that point in the season.) 

But, right, he can do this. It’s different, but that’s fine. Maybe it’ll work out for him! 

Maybe. 

He scans the list again, frowning at the fact that Niall hasn’t got any of the same assignments as him. Usually they manage one, but apparently not, this year. In fact, Louis and Jade are the only ones competing in China at all, and Louis’ apparently being sent to Paris with Harry. The rest of them are scattered: Liam and Eleanor in Canada and Japan (for NHK), Zayn and Perrie in America and Canada, Leigh-Anne in Japan and America and Harry in Paris, obviously, and NHK. 

That’s three straight weeks of competition for Harry, and Louis thinks that’s a little unfair of the ISU, especially because he knows Harry will still compete. Because he’s a bloody idiot who can’t say no. 

Okay, it’s Harry’s life though, so Louis shouldn’t get ahead of himself. It’s not his place to like, get mad about it for him. Any protective feelings he has should just be pushed aside, right? Well, maybe not all of them, because he’s sure he’d feel the same for Niall or Liam or Zayn, if it happened to them. 

At least, he’s pretty sure he would. 

Ugh, fuck. Whatever. What he needs to do is focus on the season, not on Harry or how he may or may not feel about Harry and definitely not on how he didn’t get any action over his vacation. Not on how hot Harry is, all the fucking time, or on how much he wants to ride Harry, right here, on this couch. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, closing his laptop again and putting it to the side, pressing his hands over his eyes again, like that’ll actually help him ignore the fact that is dick is half-hard between his legs already and rapidly working its way to filling completely. 

He should get off the couch. He should get off the couch and go to his room because Harry will be back any fucking second with his friends, and there’s literally nothing worse than being caught with your dick out by your extremely hot flatmate and his friends that he’s probably fucked. He should get off the couch. 

Louis rests a hand on his stomach, just above his waistband, takes a few deep, calming breaths. His hand stays where it is, but Louis takes a moment to consider the possibilities. He could just do it here. He could slip his hand in and wank, quick and dirty, and go red in the face for the next week anytime he looks at the couch. Or, he could get up, go to his room and take his time about it. There’s lube in his room. Out here he only has spit. Unless he never---

“Summer Nights” from _Grease_ shrieks out from his phone beside him, alerting him to a phone call. Louis jumps, sitting straight up on the couch to scramble for his phone. The display says Harry’s calling, but Louis didn’t set a ringtone for Harry, especially not this one, and fuck, Zayn must’ve gotten ahold of his phone at some point. Damn it. 

“Hi, hello,” Louis says when he answers, hoping he doesn’t sound as breathless as he thinks he does. 

“Hiiiii,” Harry says, his voice a long drawl on the other end. Louis suppresses a shudder at it. He really doesn’t need more of a situation than he already has. Also, he absolutely draws the line at wanking to his flatmate’s voice when he doesn’t even know it’s happening. “All right?” 

“Hm? Yeah, fine,” he says, still a bit winded, and Harry pauses. Louis can hear chatter in the background, music maybe, and he’s probably driving. 

“You sure?” Harry’s voice has gone a bit quieter, lower, and God, _no._ “You sound winded.” 

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, digging the fingernails of his free hand into his knee, hard. The pain gives him something to focus on. Well, something else to focus on. 

“Was just doing some pilates,” he lies, laughing. “No better time to start training again, yeah?” 

“I guess.” Harry sounds skeptical, but Louis’ also fairly sure he’ll drop it now. “Anyway, I’m grabbing dinner with Caroline and Nick. D’you want to join?” 

Louis gnaws on his bottom lip. He’d like to, is the thing. He didn’t get to see Harry enough last night, and this morning they fought, and Louis would put up with his two friends for just, God, for even a chance to spend time with him. (Pathetic, he’s so bloody pathetic.) But what if his friends know? What if Caroline and Nick take one look at Louis and say, _oh yeah, that Louis Tomlinson, he’s arse over tits for Harry, isn’t he? Dead obvious._

It doesn’t seem like something Louis wants to risk. Especially if he doesn’t even know how he feels about Harry. He can’t have other people knowing before he figures it out. Absolutely not.

“Um, best not,” Louis says finally, though he knows the silence has gone on too long. Harry will take it a different way, probably. Louis feels a bit sick. “Middle of my workout, yeah? Don’t want to ruin it.” 

“Right,” Harry says carefully, tone unreadable. Louis runs a hand through his hair. 

“Bring me back something though,” he says, needing to say something, “unless you’re not-- unless you want to like, spend time with them, then don’t, that’s fine. I’ll um, see you tomorrow?” 

“Tonight,” Harry says, tone still weird, but maybe a little less cold than just a moment ago. “I’ll be home tonight.”

_Home._

Fuck. Louis is so fucking in love with him. 

“Right,” he croaks, eyes squeezing shut. “Bring me some food, then, since you won’t be here to cook for me.” 

Harry chuckles, low and warm, and Louis wants to drown himself in the sink. “You only keep me around for my cooking skills.” 

“You can’t prove a thing,” Louis says, and Harry laughs again. 

“See you later, Lou.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” 

Louis hangs up, throws his phone on the floor and buries his face in his hands. 

Well, at least he’s not hard anymore. 

\---

Some indeterminable amount of time later, Louis picks up his phone and calls Zayn. 

“I’m in love with Harry,” is the first thing he says. 

“I’m gonna ask Perrie to marry me,” Zayn replies. 

Fuck. _What_? 

“What?” Louis doesn’t screech, but it’s a near thing. 

“You seemed like you were freaking out.” Zayn’s so calm. How is he so calm? Louis feels like he’s about to combust, or maybe just shatter into a million pieces. If he weren’t intimately familiar with how a panic attack felt, he might think that’s what this is. Fuck, maybe it is a panic attack. Maybe it’s different for different things. Feels different for different situations. Jesus _fuck._

“I _am_ freaking out,” Louis says, edging on hysterical. 

“Come over. Niall’s out. It’ll just be us,” Zayn says, and Louis nods in response before he realizes that Zayn can’t actually see him. 

“Yeah, be there soon.” 

The drive over calms him somewhat, even though it’s short-- and Louis is so, so glad they all decided to get flats near each other, seriously-- so by the time he gets to Zayn and Niall’s door, he feels a little less like he’s about to fly apart. 

“I ordered Indian,” Zayn says as soon as he opens the door and Louis breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Thank god,” he says, moving past Zayn and into the flat. “This is definitely an Indian level problem.” 

Zayn doesn’t say anything as he shuts the door, which isn’t actually all that weird, so Louis sits down in his favorite armchair, closing his eyes. 

When he opens them again, Zayn’s stood in front of him, arms crossed, and an eyebrow raised. He doesn’t look cross, just...contemplative. 

Louis bristles. “What?” 

“Is it really a problem?” Zayn looks at him carefully, and seems to realize that Louis has no idea what he’s talking about. Or, that he’s pretending not to, at least. “Being in love with Harry, I mean. Is it really a problem?” 

Wow, okay, right to it, then. Louis huffs out a breath. 

“I mean, yeah,” he says, throwing a hand up helplessly. “The season’s about to start, so it’s not like I can do anything about it, his friends are here from England to visit, and God, Zayn he doesn’t even-- he wants something _casual._ ” 

Zayn frowns at him. “He told you that?” 

“Yes,” Louis’ says condescendingly, because seriously, he wouldn’t just assume that-- well, okay, he might, but this time he did actually have a conversation about it. “I mean, he doesn’t even want something casual. He wanted a one-off. So I really don’t see how my being in love with him fits into that.” 

Zayn doesn’t answer. Louis focuses on the sound of his own breaths as they move in and out of his chest. 

“So,” Zayn says after what feels like a fucking eternity, “kind of a problem.” 

“Yeah,” Louis nods. “Yeah.” 

\---

“You know, you could still like, talk to him about it,” Zayn says later, speaking more into his curry than to Louis’ face. 

“I could, but then I’d have to live through him letting me down easy,” Louis says, using a piece of Naan to sop up leftover sauce from his saag. He’s fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to handle Harry’s ‘gentle disappointment’ face. His pity face. No thanks. 

“Maybe. Or he could do the opposite.”

“What, laugh at me? Sounds excellent.” 

“No, you twat.” Ha, Zayn sounds annoyed. Score one for Louis. Maybe. “I mean, he could like, tell you the same thing, yeah? Say he wants to have your adopted babies, like.” 

Louis stares at him. 

“Yeah, no,” he says, “we’ve been over this. He definitely wouldn’t.” 

“You never know,” Zayn says gently, “people change.” 

And, yeah, Louis knows that quite well, actually. Really well. 

“Right.” He takes a sip of water, sets the glass back down. “So, Perrie.” 

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “What about her?” 

Seriously, Malik? “Uh, you want to marry her?” 

“Oh.” Zayn, oh God, Zayn _blushes_. Louis has never seen this happen. Ever. 

“That’s all you have to say?” Louis is crowing, he knows, and he knows it’s obnoxious, but one of his best mate’s just told him that he wants to propose to a girl. Marriage. Christ. “You tell me you want to marry her and then just ‘oh’??? Zayn, come on.” 

“I’m not like-- sure, I guess,” Zayn says, looking down into his curry. Louis kicks a foot out, hooks it around Zayn’s ankle. 

“Dunno, saying it outloud seems pretty sure to me,” Louis says, gentler, “I mean. Just said I’m well in love with Harry Styles, didn’t I? Pretty serious about that.” 

“Yeah, but that was-- I haven’t said it before,” Zayn says, looking up at him. Louis forgets, sometimes, that behind his cool, confident, and extremely nerdy exterior, that Zayn’s a huge softie. And everyone’s got insecurities. Especially people neurotic enough to be judged for a living. 

“First time’s always the hardest,” Louis says, knocking his toes into Zayn’s ankle again. Zayn puffs out a laugh. 

“Yeah, guess you’re right.” 

“Of course I am. I’m always right.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. So. I want to marry her.” 

Louis smiles, serene and sharp. 

“Then I guess we’ll have to figure out how you’ll ask.” 

\---

As it turns out, trying to plan a proposal with Zayn is so frustrating that Louis completely forgets he came over with a problem. He also, unfortunately, forgets that Harry said he’d be home after dinner with Caroline and Nick, and that time passing is actually a thing. 

It’s 9:45pm when his phone starts shrieking _Grease_ at him again, and he glares at Zayn, who’s curled in on himself, laughing. 

“Hello,” he says primly, still glaring at Zayn. 

“Hi,” Harry says, a bit flat in tone and Louis frowns. Why’s he calling in the middle of dinner anyway? Or cocktails, or whatever. 

“Hi,” Louis repeats, picking up a pillow to throw at Zayn, who’s stopped laughing, at least, but is still watching Louis with a stupid grin on his face. Ugh. 

“So,” Harry says, and Louis sighs. 

“Yeah, Haz, did you need something?” It comes out harsher than he means, but Zayn’s being an idiot and Louis really can’t deal with both of them being weird at the same time. 

“Um, no, I guess not,” Harry says, but now he sounds uncertain, and-- and hurt, maybe. “I um, just thought you’d maybe be here? When I got back. But you’re not.” 

Wait, fuck. “You’re home already?” Another peal of laughter from Zayn, and Louis leaves the room, glancing at the clock as he does. 

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, H,” he says, slipping into the bathroom to lean against the counter. “I um, went to Zayn’s to help him with party stuff and lost track of time.” _I also thought you’d be out later,_ he wants to add, but doesn’t. 

“Oh,” Harry says, sounding...surprised, maybe. Louis really can’t tell over mobile. “That’s-- That’s fine. I mean I didn’t mean to-- I wasn’t trying to like--”

“Harry,” Louis says firmly, but not unkindly, just, firm enough so that Harry stops rambling. Right. “It’s fine. I didn’t leave a note. It’s okay to like, wonder where I am. Especially if we had plans.” 

“Right,” Harry breathes, and fuck, Louis wants to skip all of this, the awkwardness and not knowing how to deal with each other. He can’t take it. 

“I’m coming back soon,” Louis says, running a hand through his hair. “Like, less than half an hour, yeah? Be home soon.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Harry says, and Louis can’t help it, he smiles like an idiot. God, he’s so pathetic. 

He splashes some water on his face before making his way out to Zayn, who seems to have calmed in his absence. That’s a plus, at least. 

“I’m going now,” he announces, grabbing his jacket and slipping his shoes on at the door. He pats his pocket, looking for keys, and Zayn snorts. 

“Yeah, alright, tell your missus I say hi, then,” he says, and ha, Zayn thinks he’s so funny. 

“Only if you tell yours that you want to marry her and have stupidly beautiful babies together,” Louis shoots back, smiling widely. Zayn flips him the bird as he slips out the door and down to his car. 

Harry’s sprawled out on the couch when Louis gets back, and he turns his back to lock the door so his gaze won’t linger on the long line of Harry’s body. 

“Zayn doing well?” 

Louis turns and flashes him a smile. “Yeah, just fine. He says hi.” 

Harry makes a noise in response, just a little grunt, and Louis frowns. He’s not still mad, is he? It-- it really was an honest mistake, though Louis supposes if Harry wants to be mad at him for something, he’s more than allowed. 

He also won’t stand for being ignored, obviously. 

Toeing off his shoes, he sets his keys and wallet on the counter. He pats down his pockets for any other bulky items, and, when he’s satisfied there’s nothing there, he makes his way over to the couch, plopping down on Harry’s legs. Harry grunts again, gaze flicking from the screen to Louis, but not looking nearly as put out as someone who’s actually upset would. 

Louis twists on top of him, straddling his thighs, and Harry’s look turns from mildly disgruntled to uncertain. Louis only leans forward, though, and drapes himself over Harry’s chest. Harry stays stock still, tense, as if he’s afraid Louis will snap at him like a wild animal. Given their past few months together, it’s pretty fair. Louis sags against him, sliding a hand up his side, and smirks when Harry seems to relax minutely. 

Slowly, so, so slowly, Harry lifts a hand and fits it to Louis’ back, just under his shoulderblade. One day, Louis will just learn to ask for cuddles instead of taking them by force.

Louis tilts his head up, “How were Nick and Caroline?” 

“Good,” Harry breathes the word out, hand squeezing briefly around Louis’ ribs. “They’re good. They were tired, though, so I let them go back to sleep.” 

“That was kind of you,” Louis says, turning his head to rest his cheek on Harry’s shoulder and look at the television. Like cuddling on the couch is the most normal thing in the world that they could be doing. Fake it til you make it, right? Right. 

“I thought so.” 

The pinch Louis gives him makes Harry jolt, causing Louis to slide to the side a bit, so he’s half on top of Harry and half wedged between Harry and the back of the couch. Their legs tangle together; one of Louis’ moving between both of Harry’s, careful not to press up into his crotch. The last thing they need right now is a situation like that. 

“Is this okay?” Louis keeps his voice low when he asks it, like it might interrupt the tiny peace they’ve managed to hold on to. Harry looks down at him, eyes wide and green. 

“‘Course it is, Lou,” he says, mouth quirking up into a smile. Louis buries his face in Harry’s chest and inhales. 

“Good,” he says, muffled, but he figures Harry hears him anyway.

\---

The day of the party, Louis heads over to Niall and Zayn’s to help them get everything set up. Well, help Niall get everything set up. Zayn has, in a move that surprises absolutely no one, fucked off to go spend time with Perrie instead of helping either of them do anything. Ridiculous. Louis will be sure to spit in any drink he makes him later. Maybe. 

Anyway, Louis and Niall load Niall’s car with the pertinent items: the grill from Louis’ balcony, coolers to be filled with ice and drinks, bags upon bags of snack foods, and, of course, the cooler with all the meat in it. As a rule, Simon tends to keep his skaters away from heavy red meats like steak and beef, but it’s still technically the break, so they can do whatever they’d like. There’s also folding chairs and blankets and towels-- though the chances of anyone actually wanting to go for a swim seem pretty slim-- all neatly packed into the car. Louis’ offered to pick up the beer, because he seriously can’t stand another party’s worth of Niall’s American swill, and once he fits it into the empty coolers, he nods at Niall, and they’re ready to go. 

The drive doesn’t take too long, and it’s lucky, really, that they’ve managed to find a public campsite, of sorts. Neither of them are completely sure whether or not they’re allowed to have the grill, per say, but the best plan is always ignorance, right? 

The sun’s just begun to set as they finish getting everything set up and light the grill. The others start to arrive soon after, some bringing friends from outside the rink, and others just showing up alone. There’s no harm either way, and Louis is just glad that he’s surrounded by warmth and the people he likes best in the world.

Jesy knocks a hip into his where he stands at the grill, pretending to be useful and check the chicken, but really he’s watching Harry run around like a loon with Caroline on his back, sand flying everywhere. Louis stumbles a bit, but manages to right himself before falling face first into the grill. 

“You’re lucky I didn’t burn myself, Nelson,” Louis says, pointing a finger at her. She laughs and holds out a beer. 

“Brought you a drink to make up for it?” 

Louis grins. “I accept your terms,” he says, taking it from her hand, along with the bottle opener. Really, people who bring him drinks are invaluable friends. 

“Good party,” she says, and his gaze flicks away from where Harry’s joined Jade and Perrie in burying Zayn in the sand. Well, it’s what he gets for napping. 

“Think so,” he says with a shrug. 

“Zayn’s gonna have sand in his bits for weeks,” Jesy says, clearly having followed Louis’ previous line of sight. He can see where this is going. 

“Yeah, glad I don’t live with him. Can you imagine the whining?” 

Jesy laughs. “He’ll be all, ‘Oh, Perrie, help me, I’ve still got sand in me bum!’” 

“‘Niall mate, c’mon, s’not like you’re busy, help me clean this up!’” Louis snorts, taking a drink of his beer. “He’s ridiculous, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Jesy agrees, nodding. “S’why we love him though, innit?” 

“Of course.” 

They fall silent after that, Louis sipping at his beer and Jesy watching the activity of everyone around them and actually checking whether or not the food’s burning. 

“So,” Jesy says finally, once she’s flipped all the meat over. “Have you told Harry you’re in love with him yet?” 

Louis chokes on his drink, coughing and spitting it into the sand. People really need to stop doing that to him. 

“Take that as a no, then,” she says easily, obviously trying not to laugh. 

“Rude,” Louis mutters, but Jesy only snorts. 

“Oh please, you’re obvious enough about it. People on Mars can probably see the hearts in your eyes, you know.” 

“I’m not sure there are any people on Mars,” Louis says, but it’s a non-argument. He gets what she’s saying, he does. He’s obvious and pathetic and terrible at hiding it. It must show on his face, because Jesy wraps an arm around him, squeezing his shoulders. 

“C’mon then darling, don’t be sad about it.” She presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Think of it this way: he probably already knows, yeah? And if he’s still speaking to you he probably doesn’t mind.” 

Louis gives her a confused look. “How does that make any of it better?” 

Jesy shrugs. “He could’ve stopped talking to you by now, or something.” 

“Who’s not talking to Louis?” Harry’s voice rumbles behind them, making Louis tense and turn, detaching himself from Jesy. Harry’s watching them curiously, head tilted and slightly concerned. 

“No one important,” Louis says, waving a hand. “Doesn’t matter. You need something?” 

“Just came to check the food.” Harry gives him an odd look before moving over toward the grill. Jesy catches Louis’ gaze and makes a face as if to say _you need to tell him._ Louis crosses his eyes at her. 

“Whoever it is,” Harry says mildly, flipping the steaks over again, “you ought to just tell them about whatever’s wrong. Communication’s important.” 

Jesy raises her eyebrows at him knowingly, and that’s probably why Louis frowns and snaps, “Yeah, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” 

Harry’s shoulders tense and he stills, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. Jesy clears her throat and walks away, mumbling something about needing to find Jade. 

Louis takes a step forward, reaching out to touch Harry’s elbow. “I’m sorry,” he says, because he is, because it was a shitty thing to say. “I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry.” 

Harry lets out a breath, shoulders relaxing a bit as he shakes his head. “No, no, you’re right. I mean--” He pauses, turning to look at Louis, setting his tongs down. “You shouldn’t have said that, and thank you for apologizing, but you’re right, also.” 

Louis huffs out a little laugh before he can help it, but Harry only smiles at him. 

“It’s like,” Harry says, scrunching up one side of his mouth. “All that, that happened? Um. When I was-- when I stopped talking to you--” 

_When you broke my fucking heart, you mean,_ Louis interrupts in his head, but just nods for Harry to continue. They don’t need to rehash this, really. 

“Right, anyway, it just like, put things in perspective, yeah? Like what’s important and worth it and all that. Like, who’s important, specifically,” he says, and Louis feels his own face twist. 

So Louis just wasn’t important enough for Harry to keep in contact with? What the fuck. 

“What,” he says voice low and dangerous, but Harry shakes his head, eyes gone wide. 

“No, no, please, wait. I’m just-- I’m not saying this very well,” he says, sounding distressed, running a frantic hand through his hair. “I’m just-- I’m trying to say that it was stupid. That it was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, okay?” 

“Oh,” Louis says, staring dumbly, incapable of doing anything else. “Okay.” 

“You’re important to me, Louis, that’s what I’m trying to say.” 

Louis blinks and looks up at him. “Right. You’re important to me too, Haz. Best friends, yeah?” It’s not really a lie if Harry actually is his best friend, right? 

Harry looks down at him, brow creasing briefly before smoothing out. He nods. “Yeah, best friends.” His tone is odd and indecipherable, and Louis wants to ask him what’s wrong, but there’s a screech behind them, and a yell, followed by _lots_ of yelling. 

“I guess Zayn woke up,” Harry says, laughing, and Louis looks at him, skims his gaze over Harry’s sandy legs. 

“You probably ought to hide then, yeah?” 

Harry grins and bolts away, leaving Louis by the grill, feeling out of sorts.

Later, when they’ve got the fire going big, Louis’ makes himself comfortable on a blanket, hand wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle, and Harry sits down next to him, landing heavily in the sand. 

“You’re drunk,” Louis says, feeling pretty tipsy himself, and Harry only laughs. 

“I’m not as think as you drunk I am,” he says, and Louis elbows him, but laughs anyway, leaning into Harry’s side. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

Harry looks down at him, smile on his face. 

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

\---

Louis walks into the rink next week at the start of their training to the sight of a jump harness propped up against the boards. Simon’s standing there with a large man off to his left, skating on the ice. Warming up, it seems. 

“Louis,” Simon says, a smile on his face that makes Louis’ stomach fill with lead.

“Simon.” He gives a short nod. 

“I hope your holiday went well,” Simon says, but doesn’t actually wait for him to respond. “I know mine was excellent. A lot of new ideas, Louis. A lot of new ideas.” 

Okay, weird and definitely creepy. 

“Um. Great,” Louis says, taking a step toward the locker room. “I’ll just-- be out soon, then?” 

Simon nods, and Louis flees. 

He maybe takes his time putting on his trainers and doing his stretches and laps before going back to change into his skates. The jump harness has been sitting in the same place by the boards all morning, even though Jade’s already been on the ice, as well as Leigh-Anne. There’s a chance it could be for Eleanor, but no, Louis knows. It’s been taunting him. 

He takes the ice without a word, skating laps to warm up. The ice is smooth and newly Zambonied, which Louis loves, so he takes his time a bit, running through some footwork that’s been in his head for awhile. Today’s just supposed to be a day to ease back in. A short practice.

Simon appears at the boards, the same man from earlier at his side. Louis swallows around the lump in his throat and skates over. 

“This is Paul,” Simon says, tilting his head toward the man. Louis gives him a nod. “He’s going to be helping you with the harness today.” 

“Right,” Louis says, clearing his throat. _Don’t yell at your coach, don’t yell at your fucking coach._ “I just have a bit of a question about that, if I may?” 

Simon nods his head, an obvious sign for Louis to continue. 

“Well, I don’t know if maybe you’ve forgotten,” he says, voice going hard and cold like the ice beneath his skates. “But I know how to do my jumps. Very well, I might add.” 

Simon doesn’t let it phase him. Louis hadn’t expected it to. “Except a quad,” he says, and Louis is so mad he wants to spit in Simon’s face and storm off the ice. 

“I don’t need a bloody _quad_ ,” he says instead, arms crossing over his chest. 

“You do if you want to actually compete at an international level.” Simon says it mildly, shrugging a shoulder. “But if you’re fine with coasting through with _decent_ , then I can send Paul home.” 

Fuck. Simon knows him too well. Fuck fuck _fuck._ He hasn’t used a harness in years, and he never really needed one in the first place. The jumps came naturally to him, like he’d known how to do them all his life and was just waiting for the chance. The harness is a sign of failure. Something he couldn’t do right. 

“I hate this,” Louis says, stepping off the ice and holding his arms out. Paul picks up the harness and fits it around his waist, under his arms. 

“I know you do,” Simon says, just a hair gentler than before. “But it’s meant to help. There’s nothing wrong with needing to try a different method.” 

Louis only gives him a look before taking the ice again, Paul hurrying behind him. 

\---

He gets home later that day and drops his bag at the entrance, storms over to the couch and faceplants into it, burying his face in a pillow that, infuriatingly, smells like Harry. 

Even his furniture’s taunting him. Fuck. 

Louis presses his face into it and screams. It helps, a little. It’s something. 

He hears a door squeak open, and fuck, Harry must still be here. Louis thought he’d still be out with is friends, but no luck, apparently. His day probably can’t get any worse, though, so there’s that. 

The couch dips with Harry’s weight, and he feels a warm hand press between his shoulderblades, annoyingly soothing. 

“Lou?” Harry’s voice sounds rough and deep with sleep. God. Why does Harry even live with him? Louis’ the worst flatmate in the history of ever. 

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry,” Louis says turning his head away from the cushions to look at Harry. His hair’s mussed up like it always is in the mornings and he looks a little dazed, and of course he’s only in his boxers, but Louis figures it’s better than him just being naked. 

“S’fine, needed to get up anyway,” Harry says, stifling a yawn. “You all right?” 

“I’m fine,” Louis says, sitting up, bringing his legs in so Harry can actually sit properly on the couch if he wants, but he catches Louis’ leg and tugs, bringing him in for a hug. 

Harry’s so warm and soft and Louis’ had such a shit day that he doesn’t even have it in him to protest. He buries his face in the junction of Harry’s neck and shoulder, an arm wrapping around him. Harry gets both his arms around Louis’ waist and hauls him in so he’s sitting on Harry’s lap. It’s so fucking comforting that it’s unfair, makes something in Louis’ chest fracture, nearly breaking apart. 

“You really fine?” Harry mumbles it into Louis’ hair. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, but, I’m here..” 

Louis shuts his eyes and inhales, getting ready to tell him everything-- the harness, the five fucking falls despite the harness, the ice bath that Greg practically shoved him into, all of it-- when he notices the smell. Or, scent, maybe. (And it’s a weird thing to notice, he knows, but his face is shoved into Harry’s neck, so it’s not like he’s that much of a creeper.) It’s wrong, is what it is, because there’s an underlying sweetness to it, an almost sickly sweet that Louis knows isn’t natural. 

Louis lifts his head, frowning. “You smell weird,” he says, leaning back. He catches sight of Harry’s face, mouth turned down and eyes avoiding him, and his own gaze skims down, snags on the four evenly spaced red scratches that seem to travel from his back, over his ribs and to his chest. 

“Oh,” Louis says, because of course Harry smells weird. Of course he woke Harry up. A mid-day sex romp can really take it out of a person. A nap is only natural. 

And, fuck, Harry couldn’t have showered afterward? He just really had to pull Louis into his lap smelling like sex and Caroline’s perfume? _Gross._ Gross gross gross. Louis feels a bit ill.

“Louis,” Harry says, but Louis is out of his lap in the next moment, standing next to the couch. Harry reaches for him, but he twists away, nearly tripping backwards over the coffee table in his haste. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” Louis tells him, “Um, unless you want one first, but I figure you’ll want to wait for--” He gestures toward Harry’s bedroom. “--you know. So, I’ll just be-- In there.” 

He flees to his room without waiting for an answer, shutting the door and sinking back against it, letting himself slide to the floor. He draws his knees up to his chest and presses his head to them, taking deep, steadying breaths. He isn’t-- it’s not that he’s angry. If he’s angry at anyone, he’s angry at himself for being upset, because he _knows_ Harry, he knows his relationship with Caroline. He’d just forgotten and that was no one’s fault but his own. And it’s not as if Harry knows he’s in love with him, so it’s really just something that no one can control. Of course, it sucks even more that it happened on Louis’ No Good Very Bad Day, but it’ll be fine. Probably. Most likely.

He survived a knee surgery and a comeback. He survived Harry cutting him off for a year and a half and he survived Harry popping back into his life. He survived the five falls today and he’s survived every ice bath he’s ever fucking taken. This is fine. He’ll be fine. 

\---

Louis doesn’t mention Caroline and neither does Harry. 

She and Nick leave in the next few days and the training season begins, which helps, really, because Louis can throw himself into his programs and his jumps-- he only had to use the harness for a week before he was able to do a quad, so ha. He’s decided on Arvo Part’s  “Tabula Rasa” for his long program and  “Diablo Rojo” by Rodrigo y Gabriela for his short. Jesy helps him with his choreography and costumes, and by mid-October, he feels pretty sure of himself. 

Of course, Cup of China isn’t until the first week of November, but that doesn’t really matter, he supposes. Always good to have extra time to keep in shape. There’s also the fact that Simon will have to travel with various skaters, starting with Skate America, which is only a week away. They’ll all travel to that competition, probably, since it’ll be (relatively) closer than their other competitions. It’s also a nice way to like, show support, and all that, for the other members of Team Simon. Louis will watch all the others on his icenetwork subscription, but he’s really the only one who does that. The others find it to be a mild sort of torture. Louis finds it comforting to see his friends compete. 

Yeah, and he likes to scope out his competition. Whatever. He’s not the only one who does it.

As the competition draws closer, the mood in the rink starts to shift. It goes from a mix of playfully serious to just plain serious and edging on tense, most days. Niall, Leigh-Anne, and Zayn and Perrie start getting more ice time, since they’re the ones competing first, so Louis works on things like his flexibility and making sure his knee doesn’t bother him too badly. He eats, sleeps and breathes his programs. He listens to his music constantly, visualizing the movements to his long program in his head-- opening footwork, quad, triple sow, more footwork, spins, triple axel-triple toe combo in the bonus, transition footwork, another triple axel, triple lutz, ending footwork and spins. His short’s not as complicated with fewer jumps and footwork sections, but he still has spins and jumps he has to hit perfectly, and while everyone works differently, visualizing has always helped him. 

Besides, it’s something else to focus on. Something that isn’t the gnawing guilt he feels every time he so much as glances at Harry. It doesn’t make sense, because he doesn’t have anything to be guilty about, not really, and even if he were going to-- to confess his feelings or whatever, this isn’t the right time. Not when they couldn’t do anything about it and not when they live together, for Christ’s sake. 

It’s just that Harry is so openly affectionate with everyone, especially Louis, and Louis has always, _always_ been an affectionate person himself, so it’s easy to just return the casual touches and looks and everything and pretend it’s not a big deal. Because it isn’t. Not to Harry, at least, and Louis doesn’t want to wreck that either. But it’s hard not to feel like he’s taking advantage of him when he crawls up next to Harry on the couch for a snuggle after a hard day. Or when Harry hooks his chin on Louis’ shoulder when he’s making tea in the morning and stays there, a warm, solid body for Louis to lean on. 

Louis should just tell him, he knows, but the longer it goes on, the harder it becomes.

\---

Skate America is not kind to Team Simon. 

It starts with the men’s short program. Niall’s in the last group of skaters to go, and even though the ice has been cleared between groups, there’s still something strange in the way he’s holding himself. Louis can tell these sort of things. It’s part of being a professional athlete. 

Niall, for his part, seems to be powering through, even though he’s clearly favoring his non-dominant leg. Louis wants to smack him. It’s a rookie mistake, and he knows it’s going to end badly. 

Harry nudges him with his elbow and slides a hand onto Louis’ jiggling knee. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. “All right?”

“Yeah, fine,” Louis says, leg stilling under Harry’s hand. “Niall’s hurt.”

“What?” Harry frowns, looking quickly back out to the ice. “What makes you think that?” 

“Watch as he goes for this axel,” Louis murmurs, tracking Niall’s lead up into the jump. His takeoff’s unsteady, and Louis has to look away when he pops it, only managing two revolutions. 

“See?” 

Harry shrugs. “Could just be nerves.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it, though. 

“Could be,” Louis agrees, but he doesn’t believe it either. 

Half an hour later, Niall goes down hard on his triple lutz in the middle of his program. 

It’s not unusual for a skater to fall, not at all, especially not during the first competition of the circuit, but Niall doesn’t get up right away. He just stays on his side, face twisted in pain, clearly visible from where they’re sitting. Louis may have a bit of a flashback to his own injury-- the cold slap of the ice, the feeling of it seeping through his costume to burn his skin, the pain, god the _pain_ that knocked the breath out of him quicker and more efficiently than the fall itself. Most of all, though, he remembers the heavy feeling of humiliation, tinged with disappointment, that had radiated through his body and made him stay down longer than strictly necessary. 

Panic, irrational and overwhelming, squeezes at his windpipe, crushes the air out of him and he sits, frozen, even as Niall gets up and gives the audience a little wave before skating over to the judges tables, no doubt intending to withdraw. A hand squeezes his knee and he sucks in a sharp breath, looking down. He hadn’t even realized he’d stopped breathing. 

It’s just Harry, obviously, because it’s not as if a stranger’s going to grab his knee in the middle of a competition. But Harry’s looking at him curiously, his brows drawn into the middle of his forehead and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He doesn’t know what his own face looks like, but it can’t be good, because Harry leans forward to speak. 

“Lou?” His hand squeezes around Louis’ knee again, and Louis takes in another breath, feeling dizzy and too, too tense all of a sudden. 

Louis’ on his feet before he can think about it, shoving his way toward the stairs and into the lobby area. All arenas are the same, mostly, in that they all have an access corridor meant just for athletes. Louis’ familiar with them, and he’s familiar with finding his way to one from the stands. He hears, distantly, someone calling his name. It sounds like Harry, but he’s not actually sure. It’s not important right now. What’s important is-- well, Louis doesn’t know, like, specifically, but he does know that his chest’s gone tight and he can hardly take in a substantial breath. He may be having a panic attack. It seems like a real possibility. Louis groans and heads for the stairwell at the other end of the lobby. 

“Hey, Louis. Louis!” The voice is closer now, but Louis ignores it to slam through the door and start down the stairs. He only makes it one flight before a hand wraps around his arm, tugging him back. 

“Louis, come on,” Harry says in a tone of voice that Louis doesn’t want to take the time to interpret. He twists in the grasp, trying to wrench his arm free. 

“Let go of me,” Louis says, or, yells, apparently, because his voice echoes against the concrete walls. He doesn’t care, he just needs to _go_ , to see Niall, maybe, or go outside or just-- anything. Just anything else. He twists again, but Harry’s grip stays firm. 

“Harry, let me go, please,” he tries, but Harry shakes his head and pulls him closer. It should probably upset Louis more, but Harry’s not hurting him, and Louis always wants contact, even more so when he’s freaking out, so he lets himself get pulled into Harry’s warm chest. Harry’s other hand comes up to press between his shoulder blades, solid and reassuring, rubbing in a slow circle. 

“You’re okay,” Harry murmurs in his ear, hand moving from Louis’ arm to wrap around his shoulders. Louis sinks into it, only slightly, and his eyes close as he tries to match his breathing with Harry’s.

God, it should be embarrassing. Louis should be proper mortified that he’s having a freakout in the stairwell of an arena during a competition he’s not even technically a part of. He should feel humiliated, and he does, kind of, but it’s hard to think about when he’s surrounded by Harry. He tangles his hands in the back of Harry’s shirt, taking a deep breath.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Harry repeats it over and over, hand at Louis’ back until Louis feels his own breathing even out. 

Louis doesn’t know know long it’s been when he finally moves, glancing up at Harry’s face, but he finds he couldn’t give a shit, really, because Harry smiles down at him, pats him on the back and clears his throat. 

“Better?” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, letting go of Harry’s shirt and squeezing his waist briefly before letting go. He runs a hand through his own hair and smiles back at Harry, who mimics the action. Right. Now it’s awkward. There’s that embarrassment, creeping up on him. 

“Sorry,” he says, the word coming out stilted and wrong. Harry frowns and shakes his head. 

“Absolutely nothing to be sorry for,” Harry says, winding an arm around his shoulders, steering him up the stairs again. “Now come on, I want to see if they’ve got a food stand or something.” 

“Simon will murder you if you eat anything they sell,” Louis says, going along easily, letting his own arm drift around Harry’s waist. 

“I’d like to see him try,” Harry says with a scoff, and Louis laughs.

\---

Louis had thought, initially, when Harry first popped back up into his life, that having a friendship now would be better than having nothing at all. He’d been right, of course, because even with the fighting and the tense conversations and the dancing around each other, they were still friends who could talk to each other and rely on each other, and once they’d gotten over the transition, or whatever, they’d gone right back to being ridiculously close and nearly inseparable. 

(Which is why, looking back on it, probably how Louis fell in fucking love with him in the first place, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Now, though, now that Louis is fully, painfully aware of his own feelings, he thinks that he’s probably the biggest idiot ever to walk the earth. Before, having a friendship after having nothing for so long was worth it, obviously, but now that all Louis can think of is going to bed with Harry and fucking him until he can’t speak and going to bed and waking up the next morning to do the same thing all over again-- well. 

A friendship just seems a little lacklustre, compared to that. 

It’d also probably help if Louis didn’t have a set of vividly detailed memories that ambushed him at any given moment of any given day. Unfortunately, Louis’ brain doesn’t seem to care that he has to do things like eat and sleep and be able to run through his programs without falling flat on his face, because anything can set it off. A laugh from Harry as he hands Louis the cereal over breakfast means Louis has to remember every single time Harry’s ever laughed while Louis had a hand around his dick. The noise Harry makes when he stretches out on the couch after a long day at the rink sounds exactly like the one he’d made with Louis’ cock down his throat and hand tangled in his hair. The sight of Harry coming out of the gym, sweaty and pink faced, brings on an avalanche of nights cramped into a bunk on the bus, Harry’s long limbs bent and curled to accommodate Louis on top of him, grinding against him in the confined space. 

Louis is well aware that those aspects of it-- the memories, the _want_ \-- is all lust. He gets that, he does, and it’s probably why it took him so bloody long to figure it out in the first place. 

But lust doesn’t explain how a simple hand on Louis’ shoulder after a hard day can make him feel lighter and relaxed. Simple lust doesn’t explain Louis’ urge to kiss Harry until his cheeks are pink and his mouth is bitten and red and have that be as far as they go. Lust doesn’t explain the goofy smile on Louis’ face when Harry catches his attention when they’re in public and pulls a funny face, just to make him laugh. It doesn’t explain the pull in his gut every single time he sees Harry: in the morning, sleep rumpled and squinty-eyed or at the rink, annoyed that Liam’s left deep grooves in the ice again and in the evenings, relaxed and humming to himself as he cooks dinner. 

More often than not, Harry turns around and catches Louis staring, but he never mentions it. Just winks at him like an idiot and goes on humming. 

Being in love with Harry Styles is absolutely awful. It’s turning Louis into someone who can’t even form a coherent sentence when asked what he’d like for dinner.

“I don’t see why you don’t just tell him,” Niall says one day while they’re with the physio guy. His fall fucked up something in his knee a bit-- nothing serious, but he’d withdrawn from the competition and been promptly assigned a set of exercises. That was two and a half weeks ago. Louis is leaving for China the day after tomorrow and he’s starting to go a bit mad with the tension. Niall made him come along, just so he’d have something to do. 

“I just wouldn’t know what to say,” Louis says, shrugging. “Like, oh, by the way, I’m stupidly in love with you and just thought you should know??” 

Niall shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t phrase it like that, though.” 

The doctor comes in then, to save Louis from answering that yeah, it could hurt, because if Harry said no, Louis would still have to see him every day. He gets judged for a living; he doesn’t need to come home every night with an aching body only to have to deal with pitying looks he’s sure Harry would send his way. 

He tells Niall as much when the doctor’s left again to get something, and Niall just rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t think he’d say no,” Niall says, clearly starting to get frustrated. 

“You can’t possibly know that,” Louis argues, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Niall smacks the heel of his hand against Louis’ forehead lightly. “You don’t know for sure either. That’s why it’s called _trying_.” 

Louis glares, but can’t actually come up with a response that he hasn’t already used. Niall looks smug about it. 

“Oh whatever,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “Piss off. Even if he did say yes, it’s not like we could-- you know--” He makes a vague hand gesture. 

“What, fuck?” 

“Yes, _fuck_ ,” Louis says primly, pinching Niall’s side. “Simon would murder us. It’s just not a good time.” 

“So you think a better time’s gonna be when you’re nearly thirty and finally retired?” 

Louis frowns and glances at Niall, who doesn’t look condescending, but curious. “No,” Louis says, lifting a shoulder. “I just-- I dunno. The summer would be better, maybe.” 

Niall snorts. “Yeah, when you’re both on different sides of the world.” Louis frowns at him and Niall sighs, patting Louis’ arm. 

“I’m just tryin’ to make you understand that there’ll never be a good time for it, mate,” he says gently, squeezing Louis’ shoulder. “So if you’re serious about it, you might as well do it soon. Nothing to lose, right?” 

Louis doesn’t answer, and the doctor comes back in, babbling on about Niall’s injury and recovery. He sounds hopeful and it’s kind of him, really, but Niall and Louis both know that it’s more than likely that Niall’s done. It wasn’t a spectacular fall, and the injury isn’t severe, but it’s persistent and bad enough that Niall will probably never be able to train and compete at the level necessary to have a good career. 

“All right?” Louis asks in the car on the way back. Niall’s been quiet, forehead pressed to the window. Louis can only imagine what’s going through his head. 

“I made out with Liam,” Niall says, and Louis chokes, nearly slamming on the brakes. 

“ _What_?” 

Niall doesn’t seem too concerned about it. “Yeah, it was a bit of a mistake, obviously, ‘cause it was right after Danielle left. The party, y’know?” 

Louis nods because he’s not sure if he could actually make himself say anything at the moment. 

“He stayed the night a few days later. Zayn was gone and we were drunk. It was like--” Niall waves a hand, like he’s not completely blowing Louis’ mind right now. “--I dunno. Therapeutic, maybe? Helped Liam figure some things out, I think.” 

“And you?” Louis manages to ask, coming to a stop at a red light. 

Niall gives him a funny look. “Don’t need to figure anything out, do I?” 

“Uh, so you’ve always known you like blokes?” 

“Suppose,” Niall shrugs, and what the fuck, how did Louis not _know_ this? “Didn’t seem important. Not like any of us have much sex anyway.” 

“Right,” Louis says, mind still reeling a bit. “So, what, if Harry rejects me you’re offering a snog?” 

Niall shoves his shoulder. “Don’t be a cunt. I’m just saying, sometimes shit happens you don’t expect, and you’ve gotta roll with it, yeah?” 

Ugh. Unexpected wisdom from Niall is always the worst. Louis doesn’t want to examine his life and his choices or whatever. He wants to sit and stew in his feelings like a normal person. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I get it, man.” 

Niall smiles at him. “Great. Now get me a donut. I’m retiring.” 

\---

Niall doesn’t actually retire. Well, not yet, anyway. He tells Simon he wants to take a break, though, and forgo the rest of the season. It makes things a bit tense for Louis and Jade when they travel to Beijing, but doesn’t affect their performance in a big way, which Louis is glad for. 

It’s also easier than he thought to compete at a new venue. Sure, all of the people here know Louis and how he’s performed in the past, but it feels more like a fresh start than moving to LA had. 

Well, okay, no, that’s dramatic, but it does feel nice, in a way. It’s a chance to rise to a challenge-- unfamiliar ice and a group of men he’s never competed against before-- and it’s one he intends to meet head on.

(It helps to have Harry’s voice ringing in his head-- _you’ll do great, Lou, you’re so ready for this_ and _you’re gonna rock it, I swear, no one’s better than you this season,_ \-- and the phantom press of Harry’s warm body against his own. He’s pathetic, he knows. He doesn’t want to talk about it.) 

He does decently; lands himself a medal in third place by less than a point, and it’s only because he’d two-footed the landing on his quad. He can fix it, he knows, especially in time for next week. Paris. If he medals in Paris there’s a good chance he’ll go to the final. The Grand Prix Final. It’s not as important as Worlds, obviously, but it’s an important competition. Only the top six skaters from each event (Men’s, Women’s, Ice Dance, and Pairs) are invited to compete. It’s definitely a precursor to the World Championships, and Louis wants to go. He can. He knows he can. 

The bronze he wins in China just helps him get there. 

He and Jade both forgo the gala to travel to France. Jade’s not competing there, since her events are over-- fifth and fourth, respectively-- but she’s worked hard, and has friends in France, and it’s not like Louis’ going to judge her if she wants to take a break. Christ knows they all deserve one. Anyway, Louis needs all the extra time he can get, since he’s sure the jet lag’s going to be awful. 

Harry gets fourth in his competition the next week, and Louis pretends not to be thrumming with energy until the day he arrives. He meets Harry with a car at the airport, smiling helplessly as Harry tumbles into the back seat beside him, looking rumpled and sleepy and miserable. 

“Hey,” he croaks, slumping into the seat. Louis wants to curl into his lap and snuggle into him. He doesn’t. 

“Hey,” Louis says instead, reaching out to grab his hand as the car pulls away. Harry looks at him gratefully, and pitches sideways to rest his head against Louis’ thigh. Louis snorts, but lets him, running a hand through his curls. 

“Rough flight?” 

Harry hums in response, his eyes slipping shut. Louis rolls his eyes, but keeps petting his hair. It’s not weird. It’s not. 

“You should probably sit up and put your seatbelt on, love,” he murmurs, but Harry whines, his hand coming to squeeze Louis’ thigh. Right, okay then. 

“I’m not a bloody pillow,” he says, tugging on Harry’s hair slightly. Harry makes another pathetic noise and screws his face up. 

“M’tired,” he whines, and Louis sighs. 

“Yeah, all right.” 

\---

Harry sleeps for most of the first day. 

It’s fine, really, because Louis doesn’t like, have anything he wants to do. And even if he did, they’re not here on a holiday. They’re here to compete. Just because they’ve got a few free days doesn’t mean they have to _do_ anything. Louis just spends the day watching French telly and ordering room service for himself. Harry wakes sometime in the evening, long enough to steal some of Louis’ dinner, shower and fall back into _Louis’_ bed to snuggle under the covers. 

“Oi, sleeping beauty,” Louis says, pinching at Harry’s ribs. “You’ve got a perfectly good bed over there.” 

“I know,” Harry says, cracking an eye open. “I’d rather sleep in this one, if it’s all the same to you.” 

It isn’t. It definitely isn’t all the same to Louis, and he’d like to wake up tomorrow morning without an erection he can’t do anything about, but. Well. It’s also ridiculously difficult to say no to Harry. 

He opts to say nothing at all, and instead picks up the tray from room service to put it in the corridor. By the time he makes it back in the room, Harry’s fallen asleep again, snoring softly into Louis’ pillow, his hair spread around his head, wild. 

Louis feels helplessly creepy, just standing there and watching him sleep, so he gathers his things and goes into the bathroom to take a hot shower. It should help, right? It should help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [come say hi!](http://jessimond.tumblr.com)
> 
> next week is the end! depending on how it goes, I might write an epilogue for the week after. thanks!


	7. vii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYOO here it is, the END! I want to give a big, big thank you to my beta, kiy, who was awesome and held my hand and gave me some great feedback. also I want to thank all of YOU for reading and commenting and kudos-ing. you're wonderful! <3
> 
> obviously this part of the story is as fake as the rest of it and please don't show anyone connected to the boys. 
> 
> enjoy!!

Louis wakes the next day alone in the room. He’d slid into the free bed when he’d gotten out of the shower last night to save himself the trouble of waking up wrapped around Harry. It’d be much too awkward and painful to explain that one, so. He took the easy way out. 

Besides, Harry’s gone when he wakes anyway, so he doesn’t have to explain anything. He would, however, like an explanation as to where Harry’s run off to, but he figures they’ll see each other again in time. It’s pretty unavoidable, seeing as they’re sharing the room. 

Louis dresses himself for comfort-- sweatpants, a t-shirt, jacket and a beanie-- and makes his way down to the conference room where the woman at the check-in counter had promised him a breakfast bar would be. It’s not much: a few scattered tables with baskets and trays of food and one offering various beverages. Clearly the most important thing is that they have tea, _good_ tea that Louis makes a beeline for, grabbing one of the paper cups and ripping a tea bag open with his teeth. He’s so engrossed in pouring the water just right that he doesn’t even notice someone approach. 

Until, of course, a familiar voice says, “I didn’t realize it’d take that much concentration to pour water,” in Louis’ ear, making him curse loudly and spill the scalding water over his hand. 

“Jesus _fuck_ , what is the matter with you?” Louis drops the cup on the table to examine the damage. Christ, but it hurts like a bitch. Is there a sink? He really needs a sink. He turns, preparing to tear someone apart, but he stops, eyes widening when he realizes just who it was who made him burn himself. 

“Fuck,” he says, feeling all the breath leave him. “ _Ed?_ ”

“Hi,” Ed responds, looking appropriately chagrinned and concerned. “D’you-- are you all right? I didn’t mean to-- I thought it’d be a laugh, but now you’re--” He gestures to Louis’ hands, still clasped over one another. Louis looks down at them, blinking, and looks back up, feeling his expression even out. 

“Yeah, twat, I’m fine, except for the part where I nearly burned my hand off,” he says, and Ed winces. “Show me to a bathroom, then.” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Ed says quickly, ushering Louis away with a hand on his back. 

They don’t speak as they make their way down the corridor into a public restroom, but it’s only because Louis doesn’t really know what to say. Ed had been his friend when he still skated in England, before his accident and before Simon scooped him up. They’d never been anything more than friends, mostly because Ed was too busy dating every single female skater that Britain had to offer. Anyway, they’d lost contact after Louis had moved, but they’d never been that close to begin with. It’s nice to see him, though. Strange and unexpected, but not really in a bad way. 

“I really am sorry,” Ed says again, frowning as Louis hisses at the contact of cold water against his skin. He grimaces at his hand as the faint red marks turn into welts almost immediately. 

“I’ll live,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “But, fuck, Ed! I haven’t seen you in years. How’ve you been?” 

Ed smiles at that, nodding. “Good, yeah, good. Stopped skating a few years ago to do coaching. Younger kids, you know? Junior circuit.” 

Louis nods. It’s not uncommon for things like that to happen. He turns off the faucet with a squeak, shaking the excess water from his hand. It starts to hurt again almost immediately, which means he’ll need to see a trainer to fix him up. Annoying. 

“I also do a bit of commentating,” Ed continues, snapping Louis’ attention back. “Which is why I’m here.” 

“That’s brilliant, mate,” he says, grabbing a paper towel to press over the burn. “Seriously. Good on you for getting out, yeah?” 

Ed sighs and leans against the counter, nodding. “Yeah. Miss it though, sometimes. The adrenaline of it, y’know? Nothing like it.” 

Louis smiles, thinking of the competition in three days, and the two practice days before it. He can feel the itch just under his skin already starting. It’s addictive, enough so that even if he falls on his arse and humiliates himself he knows he’d just get up and do it again and again. Addictive to the point of stupidity. 

Well, at least he’s not the only one with the problem. 

Ed swears under his breath, looking at his watch, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve got to go,” he says, giving Louis an apologetic look, “but we ought to catch up. Dinner?” 

Louis nods, peeling off the paper towel and binning it. “Yeah, ‘course. Tonight?” He doesn’t have any plans, which is nice, but, “Harry will probably want to come to. If that’s all right.” 

“Harry Styles?” Ed sounds surprised. 

“Yeah,” Louis says slowly. “Harry Styles. We’ve the same coach now, you know.” 

“Oh, I know,” Ed says, “The whole bloody skating community knows. But I didn’t-- Are you two mates?” 

“In a manner of speaking.” Louis pauses, a bit of a frown forming on his face. “We live together, too. We’re friends, yeah.” 

_And I’m also desperately in love with him, but that’s not the important part,_ Louis thinks, pressing his lips together. 

“You _live_ together?” Ed laughs, sudden and loud, like he can’t quite believe it. Louis feels a lot like he’s both being made fun of and left out of a very important joke, neither of which are feelings he enjoys, so his mouth goes tight. 

“Didn’t realize the thought of me having a friend was so hilarious.” 

“No, no, it’s just--” Ed takes a breath, gets himself under control. “Christ. You really don’t know, do you?” 

Right, now this is just annoying. “Know what?” he bites out, uninjured hand clenching briefly by his side. 

Ed chuckles again. “You ought to see for yourself. Find a computer. Search yours and Harry’s names. Seriously.” 

Something heavy settles in Louis’ chest, uneasy. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ll see you later?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ed says, nodding. “I’ll be in the lobby ‘round seven? Bring whoever you like.” 

Louis nods back at him, lifting his hand in a wave as Ed retreats down the corridor. Louis spares a glance back into the room where a few of the hotel staff have started putting things away. Louis’ sure he could beg something off of them, but the thought of eating doesn’t appeal to him, suddenly. 

He sighs and makes his way toward the elevator. 

\---

_STYLES AND TOMLINSON: STAR RIVALS WORKING TOGETHER UNDER THE SAME COACH?_

_STYLES CRACKS UNDER PRESSURE AS TOMLINSON TAKES LEAD_

_TOMLINSON STUMBLES DURING LONG, STYLES STEALS GOLD_

There are hundreds of them. Articles. About Louis and Harry. And how they’re _rivals_. Hundreds. 

All right, maybe not _hundreds_ , but quite a few. They’re mostly small, online-only publications, but the comments section of each article is massive and full of people arguing about who’s a better skater and who’s favored by the judges more and who’s more attractive. (Louis can’t help but feel smug at the general consensus that his arse is the best out of everyone’s in men’s singles. What? He’s human, and it is a very good arse.) 

But it’s just-- _bizarre._

Louis is used to speaking to the press-- every competition has a press conference afterward, as well as press and cameras during, just waiting for someone to breakdown to sell a good story-- and he’s used to articles being written and he’s used to fans. (Although, admittedly, he wasn’t aware he had quite this many. It’s flattering.) He supposes he must’ve just been used to it all on a very peripheral level, though, because this absolutely floors him. 

He’s reading an article about Team Simon and what they mean for British skating on the whole-- _Cowell’s managed to do the impossible, it seems, and gather Britain’s finest skaters, train them in America and send them around the international circuit to establish a dominance that’s ceased to exist since the 1970s,_ he reads, and tries not to feel too smug about it-- when the door creaks open and Harry walks in. 

Louis eyes glance to the clock on his laptop-- half-eleven, but Louis doesn’t have it in himself to gripe about it-- and then up to Harry, who’s looking at him a bit cautiously. 

“Morning,” Louis says, shaking some hair away from his eyes. “Did you know we’re rivals whose fierce personal competition is fueling our coaching team’s international success?”

Harry frowns. “What?” 

“Ran into a mate of mine earlier,” Louis says, waving a hand, “and he told me to look myself up, yeah? There’s all these articles about us. Like, how we’re proper influential in the skating world.” 

Harry’s eyes narrow. “What friend?” And seriously, Harry? 

“Ed Sheeran. That’s all you got from this? That I have other friends?” 

Harry shrugs but plops himself down on the bed anyway, thigh pressing against Louis’. “Dunno, you’ve never mentioned him, is all.” 

“Didn’t realize I needed to,” Louis says stiffly, closing his tab and going back to the Google results page. Harry hooks his chin on Louis’ shoulder, eyes scanning the screen. He points to one, dated two days ago. 

“That one,” he murmurs, and Louis clicks it.

> _STYLES AND TOMLINSON: BETTER TOGETHER OR APART?_
> 
> _It’s well known that Louis Tomlinson, 21, began his senior career with more drama than most. After recovering from a knee injury that almost took him out of international competition, Tomlinson has skated his way to five Grand Prix medals over two years and two British National titles. He was ousted at the end of last season by teammate Harry Styles, 19, who stood just one step below Tomlinson at the 2009 Junior World Championships, where Tomlinson took gold._
> 
> _Though the two differ greatly in their techniques and skating styles, there’s something to be said for their twin fierce ambition and inherent talent. Both have been quoted as saying they want to “rise to the occasion” at any given competition, and would one day like to see Britain regain a semblance of the dominance that it used to have in the sport._
> 
> _“I just think now’s the right time,” Harry Styles said after the short program at last season’s World Championship competition, where he took the silver medal. “Britain’s got a lot of talent, and we’re prepared to fight for what we deserve.”_
> 
> _Tomlinson said something similar at the press conference at the Cup of China, where he placed third. “The goal, for me, is always the World Championships. I’d love to make the Final, and I’d love to re-claim my spot as National Champion, but whatever happens, happens, and mostly I keep in mind that the ultimate goal is doing well at Worlds. It’s bigger than just medals, for a place like Britain, and I think everyone who skates for Simon understands that.”_
> 
> _With the steep decline in the consistency and quality of American figure skating, particularly within the men, these two British skaters may be poised to do just what they intend. Only time will tell whether or not Styles and Tomlinson make good on that ambition, but this is one avid fan who won’t be surprised if they do._

“Well, shit,” Louis says, letting out a breath. That’s...mildly terrifying to think about, actually. That he and Harry may hold the future of Britain’s dominance on their shoulders, and oh God, Louis’ having a little trouble taking in a breath.

“Hey,” Harry says, muttering into Louis’ ear, large hand squeezing his thigh. “Stay with me, okay? You’re all right.” 

Louis shuts his eyes, taking one deep breath and then another, until he feels a bit more normal. And that just-- God, it’s so frustrating that he can’t even remember to breathe properly unless Harry tells him to. It’s all a bit too much. 

“Right,” he says finally, patting Harry’s hand. “Thanks. Sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Harry sits back, and Louis feels the loss of his warmth like a slow ache. “I brought you a croissant.” 

“Oh, is that where you were? Off flirting with half of Paris while I suffered through continental breakfast?” 

Harry rolls his eyes and flops back on the bed. “It was one barista, and I got you a croissant out of it, so I don’t see the issue, really.” 

Louis frowns. He hadn’t meant to-- It’d just been a joke. “I was just teasing, Haz,” he says carefully, putting his laptop to the side and stretching out beside him. 

Harry shakes his head, waves a hand. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m just nervous, I guess.” Louis can understand the feeling. He bites his lip and throws caution to the wind as he snuggles up next to him, fitting an arm over Harry’s stomach. Harry’s arm wraps around Louis, and he smiles into the fabric of Harry’s t-shirt. 

“So,” Louis says into the comfortable silence. “Did you want to come to dinner with me and Ed?” 

“I dunno,” Harry says, monotone, “are you going to flirt with him the whole time?” 

Louis pinches him. “Are _you_?” 

“Oww.” Harry’s tone is more of a whine than anything else, and he’s laughing, so it probably didn’t hurt that much. “And no, I probably won’t flirt with happily married Ed Sheeran,” he adds, and Louis sits up, raising an eyebrow. 

“He’s married? How d’you know that?” 

“Because we’re friends.” 

“Are you friends with everyone?” Louis doesn’t sound jealous. He doesn’t. “I mean, seriously, how many friends can one person have?” 

“Lots, obviously,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. He pinches Louis’ hip. “But you’re my favorite.” 

Louis feels his expression soften. Christ, he’s so in love with this boy that it’s stupid. “Yeah?” 

Harry looks up at him, brow scrunched in confusion. “Of course. Don’t live with any of the others, do I?” 

Louis laughs, ignores the light feeling in his chest and hops off the bed, taking Harry’s hand. “Come on, then. I want to see the Eiffel Tower.” 

Harry follows. 

\---

The competition itself isn’t anything extraordinary. 

The short program goes well, with Harry landing in fifth and Louis in third by the end of it. A strange sense of calm washes over him, though, before the long program is set to begin. The warm-up is routine-- he nearly collides with a skater from Italy, but it hardly even shakes him-- and by the time he goes, second to last, right before Harry, it’s almost as if he’s having an out of body experience. He’s there, but he’s not really _there_. There’s a brief moment when he takes his starting pose and uncertainty grips his chest, twisting until he can’t draw a breath. _What if he can’t do this? What if he falls? What if he’s just not good enough?_ He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t really help.

But his music starts in the next moment and he pushes off, snapping back to himself and his program. It’s slow and melodic, but fairly syncopated as well, and definitely relies on him hitting certain moves at certain times. Keeping time is the hardest part, obviously, and the judges award extra Grade of Execution points any time a skater lands a jump at the right time or times a spin to coincide with a swell in the music. Louis’ always been fairly good at things like that, rhythmic things, and it helps that he’s choreographed it mostly by himself, so he really feels connected to it. He pours himself into it, gives it everything he can and hopes it’s enough.

Four and a half minutes later, he pulls out of his final spin to a dead silent arena, save the last chord of his music echoing faintly off the cement and metal. Thunderous applause erupts a moment later, and Louis feels himself smiling widely, taking his bows. 

His score is huge-- a season’s best and the highest anyone’s done today by at least five points. It puts him into second, guaranteeing him a medal. It’s a nice feeling. 

No, scratch that. It’s fucking _brilliant._

He settles himself backstage to watch as Harry takes the ice for his long program, set to  “Your Hand in Mine” by Explosions in the Sky. It’s not really Louis’ cup of tea, music wise, but it’s not as bad as some of the other shit Harry listens to and the program Harry’s choreographed with Caroline and Simon goes with it beautifully. It shows off his long, lean lines, elegant spins, and some amazingly placed jumps. It’s rotten that they all have to compete within a set of strict rules and guidelines-- that they have jumps they’re required to put in and land perfectly, and that there are footwork sequences and spins and elements they can’t leave out or they’ll be penalized. It’s constricting, suffocating, but skaters with real talent, like Harry, and even like sometimes like Louis himself, can do it and still make it into art. They can give a performance and move you to tears or tell a story or just take you out of your own head for a few minutes, and that’s what Louis lives for. Not the medals or the money or the sponsorships and definitely not for the pain of training eight hours a day and six days a week. 

Louis watches Harry’s program, engrossed in how free he looks, how vulnerable and how-- God, how unfairly _beautiful_ he is. He skates with everything he has, so open and so much braver than skaters like Louis, who hide behind a constructed story. Louis is good at what he does, yes, but Harry gives himself to it, lays himself bare and gives anyone who wants it a piece to take home. 

Louis’ chest feels tight as Harry pulls out of his last spin and takes his bows, and he has to clear his throat before watching the scoring, watching Harry take third place, less than a full point behind Louis. He’s shuffled quickly back onto the ice for the medal ceremony, taking his spot on the right side of the podium. There’s a moment, right before the ceremony is set to begin, where Louis twists forward, past the Japanese skater who’s won, to look at Harry. He can’t explain it, really. He doesn’t have anything to tell him, and it’s not like Harry could hear, so he just leans forward and grins, happiness bursting in his chest when Harry smiles back, his cheek dimpling up. 

All the articles written about the competition use the photos taken of that moment.

\---

“You were really good tonight,” Louis says from his place on the bed, splayed out on his back. He’d claimed the first shower and reclaimed his own bed when he’d gotten out. Harry hadn’t said anything as he’d gone into the bathroom, but that’s not weird. Not really. He’d looked pretty tired, after all. They had a bit of a day, all things considered. 

“Not as good as you,” Harry says, muffled, and when Louis peers around, he regrets it immediately, since he’s rewarded with a glimpse of Harry’s towel-clad bum as he’s bent over and rifling through his suitcase. 

“Obviously,” Louis snorts, looking back to his phone before Harry can look up and find him staring. That’s definitely not what he needs. 

“Obviously,” Harry parrots in a faux-snooty voice. Louis throws a pillow at him. It misses. Harry picks it up and flops onto Louis’ bed with it, curling around it and looking up at Louis. He’s put some pants and pajama bottoms on, at least.

“You’re not sleeping in here again,” Louis warns, pointing a finger at him. “That bed’s uncomfortable. I claimed this one first.” 

“Why can’t we share?” Harry asks it so innocently that Louis can’t tell whether or not it’s an act. It has to be. 

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Louis says, shrugging. Harry pouts and shuffles up the bed, winding himself around Louis, who’s helpless to do anything but let it happen. 

“But what if I want a cuddle?” 

“Then we can cuddle now and later I’ll kick you out to sleep in your own bed.” There. Totally logical conclusion. Louis is so smart. 

Harry huffs. “Fine,” he says, still pouting, and Louis rolls his eyes. 

“You’re a child.” 

“You like it.” 

Well, Louis can’t really argue there. “Hm,” he says instead, reaching out to pinch Harry’s nipple. His fault for not wearing a shirt. “Suppose so.” 

Harry smiles, catching his hand and holding it, linking their fingers. He runs his thumb over the back of Louis’ knuckles, nuzzles into Louis’ neck and Louis can only hope that he can’t feel how fast his pulse has gone. He tries to keep his breaths even and light, but it’s difficult with Harry pressed against him, warm and shirtless. His free hand reaches up to Harry’s head, combing through the damp curls. Harry makes a whining noise and presses his nose into Louis’ neck, making his eyes flutter closed. 

Christ, he must be a masochist. Any sane person would tell Harry to fuck off or set boundaries or something. But, no, Louis wants these moments, because they’re all he’ll get. Something’s better than nothing. 

Maybe if he tells himself that enough he’ll start to actually believe it.

“You going home after the gala?” Ugh, his voice comes out embarrassingly rough. 

“Nah,” Harry answers, lips brushing Louis’ neck, making him shiver. “Thought I might go to London. Visit some friends before Nationals.” 

God. Louis can’t wait for the day when Harry referring to their flat in LA as _home_ doesn’t send a sharp jolt of emotion to his chest. 

“Right, that’s what I meant,” Louis says, clearing his throat. “But, friends, yeah? So Nick and Caroline?” 

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice rumbles in his chest, and God, Louis can feel it where they’re pressed against each other. He’s so stupid. This is so stupid. 

“Be careful she doesn’t leave marks this time, yeah? Wouldn’t want to get bollocked by Simon before defending your national title.” 

Harry tenses, starts to pull away, and fuck, Louis fucked that up properly, didn’t he. He sighs, tightening his hand around Harry’s.

“Harry, I’m--” 

“No,” Harry says, voice firm. “You’re not-- Caroline and I aren’t like that.” 

Louis raises an eyebrow. That’s news to him. “Did you or did you not sleep with her when she visited LA?”

“I did, but--” Harry sighs, pulls away more, and Louis has to stop himself from grabbing his wrist to tug him back. “It’s not like that, okay? That was the last time. It wasn’t-- It didn’t mean anything.” 

“Oh, so it was casual,” Louis says, voice sharp, and Harry’s eyes narrow in response. He pulls away fully, disentangling himself from Louis and sitting up on the bed. 

“Don’t _do_ that,” he says, sounding frustrated. “Don’t throw that back in my face, okay?” 

“Throw what?” Louis sits up as well, sitting back against the headboard. He doesn’t appreciate being treated like he’s in the wrong here. Because he’s not. “The fact that you’re incapable of making a serious commitment?” 

Harry looks as though he’s been slapped, and Louis can’t decide whether the feeling in his gut is satisfaction or guilt. He knows the other one, the burning in his chest and out through his fingertips, is anger. 

“What?” Harry’s voice is low, edged with something dangerous. It only makes Louis’ blood run that much hotter. “Where the fuck did that come from?” 

Louis snorts. Seriously? “Maybe the part where you couldn’t even fucking keep your half of a friendship going?” 

“You said--” Harry snaps his mouth shut, breathes heavily through his nose. He looks really pissed, actually, and if Louis weren’t so mad himself, he might feel bad about it. “You said it didn’t matter. You said you wanted us to move on.” 

“Well, I fucking lied then, didn’t I?”

“You can’t do that,” Harry spits, scrambling off the bed and pointing a finger at Louis. “You can’t say something’s in the past and then fucking throw it into a fight every time I do something you don’t like.” 

Louis crosses his arms and looks away. He can do whatever the fuck he likes, actually, including holding grudges. He doubts Harry will agree. 

“God, so now you don’t even have anything to say for yourself?” Harry laughs, incredulous and bitter, and so sharp it makes Louis turn his head back to glare. “You’re fucking impossible, Louis. I’m trying. I’m trying _so hard_ to be your friend, because that’s what you want--” 

“Well if it’s such a fucking hardship for you, don’t keep doing it for my sake,” Louis snaps, throwing his hands up and hoping that the exasperation hides the fucking hurt, because ow. _Ow._

“Shut up,” Harry growls, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” 

“No, actually, I’ve no bloody idea what you mean, because all you’re doing is yelling at me.” 

“You’re yelling at me too!” 

“You started it!” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry says, pressing the heel of one hand to his eye. “You always do this. You get mad and then you feel bad and you don’t let anyone explain or apologize properly so you just fucking hold the feelings in and then they explode. I’m tired of it.” 

Louis blinks, too stunned to actually say anything. Fuck. How is Harry so good at that? No one’s supposed to be able to read him that well. He looks away, swallowing thickly. Unfair. So ridiculously unfair. 

“Are you going to let me explain,” Harry says after a moment of painful silence, voice less angry and more hesitant, but still full of some emotion that Louis can’t and doesn’t want to recognize. “Or are we going to keep doing this every time we have a disagreement?” 

Louis huffs out a breath. “Since you’re so keen,” he says, ignoring the sharp look he gets. He’s not even really sure what Harry’s going to explain, and he sure as Hell knows it’s something he won’t want to hear, but God. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Harry sits on the edge of the bed, near Louis’ legs. He takes a deep breath, looks at the ceiling and then down at his hands. Louis wants to sigh and snap at him about taking too long, but he also doesn’t want Harry to actually, like, get so mad as to leave. That wouldn’t be good. Counterproductive, even. 

“So,” Harry says finally, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “When you and I-- when we-- you know--” Oh. So that’s what he’s explaining. Fuck. 

“Yeah,” Louis says, because he does. God, does he know. 

“I was in love with you,” Harry blurts, and Louis has to take a moment as the world tilts sideways and rights itself too quickly. He feels a bit ill. Dizzy. 

_I was in love with you._ Hope blooms in Louis’ chest, expanding so quickly that it pushes the air out of his lungs, makes it hard to breathe. 

“What,” he says, but it’s not really a question, more just a noise that comes out of his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, shoulders tensing, and fuck, Louis is so stupid. So, so stupid. “But I-- I dunno, I couldn’t tell like, what you wanted, I guess? And I was so young, you know, I just-- I didn’t know if it was real or if it was just the touring or whatever.” 

Louis swallows around a thick lump in his throat, but it doesn’t help. Fuck. Harry was in love with him. _Was._

“And you just-- God, Louis, you have no fucking idea what you’re like,” he says, voice edging on desperate. His eyes are wild when Louis meets them. “You’re like-- electric, you know? Magnetic. Like, I just-- I don’t even think there was ever a chance that I wouldn’t fall for you.” 

He pauses, and Louis feels his stomach twist, waiting for the rest of it. He can still hardly fucking breathe.

“It was just-- it was too much you know? We were kids. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I just, panicked, I guess. And like, stopped.” 

Louis swallows again, letting the silence hang heavy between them. Harry’s looked away from him again, but Louis can see the tense line of his spine, the hunch of his shoulders. God, Louis wants him so much. 

But. 

“Stopped talking to me or stopped loving me?” Louis asks, voice low, hardly a whisper. Harry glances at him, face beautiful and open and hopeful, like he knows, he knows how Louis feels, and fuck, they can’t do this. Can they? They are, by all rights, still kids. Fuck, Harry’s still a teenager, at least until February and Louis is about to be 22. Nothing’s really _changed_. 

Maybe that’s the point. It’s been years and nothing’s changed between them. 

“Harry?” Louis says, even though he doesn’t need an answer, because the way Harry’s leaning in is answer enough. Louis feels something in his chest constrict and expand again, and fuck, he’s shaking, his arms are _shaking_ , like he’s about to perform the most important program of his life. Maybe he is. 

He reaches out, slowly placing his hand on the smooth plane of Harry’s chest. He feels Harry’s breath hitch, and he sucks in a breath of his own, loud and sharp in the otherwise still of the room. Louis slides his hand up to the side of Harry’s neck, thumb tracing his jaw and moving closer on the bed, throwing a leg between Harry’s, half in his lap. Harry’s hands catch him, settling around his hips and grounding him. Fuck, it feels good. It feels right.

“Haz,” he says, voice a rough whisper. He leans in, slow, to press his forehead to Harry’s. “Tell me you stopped loving me.” 

_Tell me to stop if you don’t want this,_ he means, and, _tell me I’m wrong._

Harry doesn’t say anything, just fits one of his arms low on Louis’ waist and pulls him closer, the other coming up to cup Louis’ cheek. Every point of contact makes a surge of want coil hot in Louis’ belly and settle heavy between his thighs. He’s half-hard, and they haven’t even kissed. God, fuck, they’re going to kiss. They’re going to _kiss._

“Louis,” Harry says, arm tightening around his hips, and fuck, right, kissing, okay, Louis can do this. He totally can. He lets out a breath, brings a hand up to Harry’s jaw, tilting his head. He can’t see anything except Harry’s lips and part of his nose, and he doesn’t want to look up into Harry’s eyes. That might be too much. Too much. 

He leans forward slightly, brushing his lips against Harry’s lightly, dry and closed-mouthed. It’s not even a real kiss, but it sends a spike of arousal so sharp down Louis’ spine that he inhales quickly and knocks Harry onto his back on the bed, crawling over him. He braces himself with a hand on either side of Harry’s head, curled over him. Harry’s hands haven’t left his hips, and one slides up into the small of his back, pressing into his spine. Louis shudders, nudges Harry’s nose with his own. 

“I’m going to kiss you now, yeah?” He’s impressed with how evenly he manages to say it. 

“Please,” Harry says, sounding desperate for it, and Louis can’t very well leave him out to dry, can he?

He takes a deep breath, tilts his head for another dry brush of their lips that makes Harry whine. Yeah, okay, maybe Louis enjoys teasing him a little, but they’ve got time, don’t they? They have all night and a few days before the Gala to fool around, and they’re in Paris, fuck they’re in Paris and Louis could laugh for how ridiculous it all is. 

“Still waiting on that kiss,” Harry says, digging his fingers in, and Louis rolls his hips down in response, groaning because fuck, _fuck_ it’s been too long since he’s done any of this, and way too long since with Harry. 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he says, breathless, leaning down again to finally, _finally_ just--

The phone rings. 

Well, it doesn’t ring so much as it _BRRRRRRRRNGs_ so loudly that Louis feels it in his fucking teeth. He sits upright, pulse racing and ignoring the way Harry’s telling him to ignore it. It’s not one of their mobiles, it’s the actual hotel phone, which means it has to be important. He pats Harry’s stomach consolingly and scrambles off him, standing to answer it. 

“Yeah, hello?” he says, watching Harry press the heels of his hands into his eyes. Louis can sympathise. 

“Louis, good to hear your voice,” Simon says, and Louis’ eyes widen. He mouths ‘Simon’ at Harry, who’s looking at him confusedly, and has to bite back a laugh when Harry’s eyes widen and his cheeks flush pink. 

“Same to you, coach,” Louis says awkwardly, turning away from Harry. Of course, there’s a bloody giant mirror right in front of him, so he can see Harry anyway. Christ. He closes his eyes. “Any particular reason you’re calling?” 

“Just to check in,” Simon says mildly, and fuck, it’s like he knew that Louis was thisclose to getting laid. Or, a kiss, at the very least. A very thorough snog. God, he _wants._

“We’re all good here,” Louis says brightly, “Just about to go to bed, I think.” 

“Good. I trust you remember all of our agreements?” 

Fuck. How does Simon _do_ that? He looks over to Harry on the bed, lets his gaze wander down his body and back up. 

“Of course,” Louis says to Simon, clearing his throat. “Of course I do.” 

“Glad to hear it. Goodnight, Louis.” 

“Yeah, goodnight.” 

Louis hangs up the phone with a sigh and sits back down on the bed. Harry’s on him in a second, curling over his back and hooking his chin on Louis’ shoulder. 

“What did he want?” 

Louis can’t help the shudder that goes through him at Harry’s hot breath against his ear. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

“Wanted to make sure we weren’t breaking any rules,” Louis says, only about half as hysterically as he feels. Harry laughs, and Louis turns, giving him a pained smile. 

“Think we’ll have to wait, love,” he says, running a hand down Harry’s smooth chest and stomach. Christ, he’s so fucking beautiful, and he-- he _wants_ Louis. Loves him. Fuck. Louis may cry. 

“I really hate Simon,” Harry says, breath stuttering as Louis’ hand brushes over a nipple. “Like, a lot. A lot a lot.” 

“I know,” Louis murmurs, falling back on the bed, leaning over to switch the light off. Might as well actually go to bed. It’s not like they can do anything else. He burrows under the covers, making room for Harry, who he doubts would go to the other bed. They curl together under the blankets, legs tangling and Harry’s arm wrapping around Louis’ middle. It’s silent in the room for a few minutes with only the hum of the air conditioner providing background noise to the sound of their breathing. 

“I love you too, you know,” Louis whispers into the dark above his head, not knowing whether or not Harry actually hears him. “You never said you did, but, I do. Love you. So.” 

Harry’s breathing stays the same, and Louis doesn’t know whether or not he’s more relieved or disappointed. 

\---

The rest of the week is strange. 

After waking up with near-painful morning wood, Louis had slipped into the bathroom while Harry still slept-- sporting some wood of his own, not that Louis was looking-- and had himself a wank. He’d re-entered the room to Harry looking like a grumpy kitten with his curls tousled and eyes still heavy with sleep. He’d pouted at Louis, who’d frowned back. 

“You stole my orgasm,” Harry had said, voice rough and petulant. Louis laughed at him for lack of a better reaction. 

“Didn’t realize it was yours, love,” he’d answered finally, climbing back into the bed, to settle himself in beside Harry. “I think you’ll have another chance though.” 

Harry’s expression softened at that, and the next thing Louis knew, he’d been tackled into a hug. 

“Love you, Lou,” he’d mumbled, and Louis had to keep himself from turning into the contact and breaking all of Simon’s rules.

“Yeah,” he’d croaked instead, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist. “Yeah, love you too.”

They watch the next two days of competition and then perform in the gala. They don’t kiss, they definitely don’t fuck, but there’s a lot of touching. So much touching. 

It’s innocent, for the most part. A stroke of the arm, a squeeze of fingers, a press of thighs or knees or elbows. Just. Anything they can get away with during the day and then at night, in the room, draping themselves over each other, twisting their limbs together and just-- laying there. It’s strange, but not in a bad way, and while Louis is fairly certain he’ll combust from sexual frustration if he doesn’t get some action soon, he’s also pretty content just lay on the bed with Harry’s head on his chest, letting Harry’s hands roam as they like. 

“I’m probably going to fuck you so hard you can’t see straight,” Harry says conversationally on their last day in Paris, as they both pack. Louis drops the shirt he’d been holding, his body shuddering with the unexpected spike of arousal. 

“Jesus, Harry,” Louis says, blinking, “Give a little warning, yeah?” 

Harry looks over, gives him a dreamy smile. “I am.” 

_Fuck._

“After Nationals, of course. I wouldn’t do it before then and have you saying I sabotaged your chances at the title,” Harry continues, folding a shirt and putting it in his case. 

Louis is physically incapable of answering him, much too dizzy and lightheaded. Harry folds one last shirt and stuffs it in, closing his suitcase and turn to Louis, eyes dark. Louis stands there as he ambles over, striding smoothly and crowding him up against the free bed. He leans down so close that Louis could count his eyelashes, if he felt inclined. He doesn’t. Not right now, at least. 

“What do you say to that?” He nudges Louis’ nose with his own, tilting his head, and God, _God_ , Louis really might die if Harry doesn’t kiss him right now. 

“Sounds good,” he says, a hand coming up to tangle in Harry’s shirt. _Please._ “Sounds really good.” 

Harry smirks and leans in slowly. Louis closes his eyes as Harry’s hand comes up to his jaw, holding him in place as he presses a quick, close-mouthed kiss to Louis’ lips, so fast that Louis doesn’t have time to kiss back before Harry’s pulling away. 

“That was rude,” Louis says petulantly, and Harry laughs. 

“I’ll find some way to make it up to you.” 

\---

Coming back to England after being gone so long is strange, as always, and bittersweet. 

Louis’ mum and sisters will come for the competition, obviously, as they always do, and the rest of Team Simon-- save Niall, who’s probably on his couch, stuffing his face with every sweet imaginable-- flies out to compete as well. Simon, Louis and Harry get to the hotel first, since it’s a shorter distance from France, and get settled easily enough. They’re still dancing around each other, though, and it’s driving Louis a bit mad. Thankfully, Zayn and Liam arrive the day after, so Louis flees to their room to hide. 

“Nice to see you too, mate,” Zayn says after a five minute hug that Liam has to prise Louis out of. “Good job in China. And France.” 

Louis grins. “Yeah, thanks. You didn’t do so badly yourself this season.” 

Zayn shrugs, like two bronze medals don’t mean much of anything to him. Please. Liam clears his throat and Louis turns, tackling him in a hug. 

“Oof,” Liam says, but hugs him anyway. 

“Where’s Harry?” Zayn sounds innocently curious, but no, Louis knows him. He shrugs, casual, and doesn’t look at Zayn when he answers. 

“The room, I imagine. He was sleeping when I left.” 

“You get yourselves sorted, then?” 

Louis shrugs. “Sort of.” He really doesn’t want to talk about this right off the bat. 

“How can you be ‘sort of’ sorted?” Liam’s frowning as he says it, and Christ. Fine. Louis sighs. 

“He told me he like, loved me.” 

The silence that follows is so long that Louis thinks maybe they didn’t hear him. But, no, Liam’s eyes have gone wide as he stares, and Zayn seems frozen. Louis winces. 

“And then we almost, um, kissed or whatever, but Simon called the room and interrupted. Do you think he’s got like, cameras in our stuff-- _Ow_ , fuck, Zayn, what was that for?” 

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Zayn’s shouting a bit. It’s kind of scary. Louis moves away from him, putting a hand over the tender spot he’s just punched. “Seriously? The boy you’ve been hung up on for _years_ says he loves you and you’re, what, hanging out with us???” 

“I’m glad to see my friendship is so important to you,” Louis sniffs, cursing when Zayn punches him again. 

“Shut up, you tit.” Zayn pauses, and his voice is softer when he says, “But seriously, why are you here?” 

Louis sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, I don’t--” He cuts himself off, shrugging helplessly. “Isn’t that just, like, too easy, though?” 

The look Zayn gives him is so unimpressed that it’s actually impressive. And a little intimidating. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“I’m just supposed to like-- forgive him because he loves me and suddenly it’s all so simple?” Louis scoffs, crossing his arms. “Like, what is that? That’s not even a thing. Not at all.” 

Zayn pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s absolutely the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, Louis. And you’ve said a lot of dumb shit.” 

“Hey that’s--” 

“You thought comedic wasn’t a word,” Zayn interrupts, waving a hand. “ _Comedic._ You asked me whether or not dalmatians were extinct. You asked me once if I ate real peanut butter or fake peanut butter.” 

Louis bristles, face heating. “A lot of those where when I was drunk, you can’t hold that against me,” he says, frowning. “But I don’t see what peanut butter has to do with my relationship with Harry.” 

“Mate, you’re basically looking for reasons not to be with him. _Too easy_? It’s not supposed to be difficult,” Zayn says, throwing his hands him. This is definitely the most animated Louis has ever seen him. “It’s just supposed to be like, right, you know? Does it feel right or not?” 

“I--” Louis takes a breath. He definitely can’t deny that it does, because nothing’s ever felt better to him than just laying in bed with Harry wrapped around him. Fuck. 

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “Yeah, it does.” 

“Then there’s your answer.” 

Louis looks around to Liam, who’s been quiet this whole time. “What do you think, then?” Liam’s the only one who understood in the first place. Liam won’t steer him wrong. Hopefully.

“I think he treated you poorly,” Liam says slowly, considering. “I think what he did was really shitty, but I also think that it’s obvious to anyone that comes within ten feet of you two that you’re arse over tits for each other.” 

“Yeah?” He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out so high-pitched, but, there it is. 

Liam nods. “He hurt you, but I think he knows that, yeah? You just need to forgive him, and trust that he won’t do it again.” 

Ha. That’s asking a lot. 

“If he does,” Zayn interjects, “we’d probably kill him ourselves. If that helps you make a decision.” 

Louis laughs, and it feels like a dam breaking in his chest, all anxiety and tension just flowing out of him. Christ, it feels good. 

“Come on then, lads, let’s get some dinner.” 

\---

Louis doesn’t tell him right away. 

Or, talk to him right away, maybe. They are here for a competition, after all, and the knowledge that as soon as it’s ended means that there’s _months_ until their next competition lights a fire under Louis that’s pretty much unprecedented. Any time he takes the ice for practice, he leaves it torn up, his skates digging ridges and ruts so deeply into the surface that they have to use the Zamboni before other skaters can safely practice. It’s not the best etiquette, he knows, but he’s determined. Motivated. 

And what a great motivation he has. 

“I’m going to destroy you,” he tells Harry the day before competition, and usually he’s not much for trash talk, but, well, it’s not trash talk if it’s just the truth, is it? 

Harry grins at him, pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms. “Yeah, probably.” He crosses the room, settling onto the bed with Louis, fingers tracing his jaw. 

Louis looks up at him, ignoring the pulse of heat down his spine from the gentle touch. “Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?” 

“Suppose I’m looking forward to it,” Harry mumbles, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of Louis’ nose. 

“Kinky,” Louis murmurs, sliding a hand down Harry’s chest. Harry smiles, his cheek dimpling up, and Louis presses his thumb into it. 

“Time for bed, yeah?” Harry leans over him, switching off the lamp. Louis gets himself into the blankets, peeling the other side up for Harry to join him. 

\---

The competition starts the in the following days with the Men’s Short Program. Louis’ always felt more confident in his short programs-- it’s much easier to hit all your moves when it’s only two and a half minutes, in his opinion-- so he goes into it without much stress. Apparently going straight from competition to competition has got him in a sort of routine and also keeps his nerves from building up again. Maybe it’s that he doesn’t have time to actually unwind between them, or maybe it’s that he’s been sufficiently distracted by trying to figure out what to do about Harry, but he takes the ice for his warm up without much fuss, running through his jumps and some of his more difficult spins. 

He’s set to go in the last group-- luck of the draw, obviously-- before Harry. It’s the first time all season that he’ll actually get to watch Harry’s short program, since he’d been too wrapped up in France to pay attention. His own program goes well, though it’s not the best he’s ever done, despite his excellent motivation. He scores into first, though, with enough of a lead to sit comfortably. By the time he’s settled in the back corridor, Harry’s just taken the ice, doing a lap to warm his limbs up again. 

There are cameras in the corridor with him, journalists taking photos to go with whatever bullshit articles they’re putting together. Louis ignores them the best he can and focuses on the monitor, where Harry’s taken his starting pose. His music is ”Fur Alina” by Arvo Part, whose music Louis’ also used. Not the same piece, of course, but still. He’d forgotten, perhaps, or maybe just hadn’t paid it much mind. He doesn’t know how he could have done either of those things, though, because watching Harry move elegantly across the ice in time with the sparse, raw notes, matching them with his own emotion, is enough to make tears well up behind his eyes. It’s not often that happens to him, either. He may be a bit of a mess. 

It’s just-- Harry’s always skated like this, always. As long as Louis’ known him. He knows he goes on about it-- about how talented Harry is and how emotional and blahblahhblah whatever he is, but it’s true. Harry has something that most people don’t, and Louis doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but he knows he wants to spend the rest of his life figuring it out. 

Which. Right. That’s a bit much, maybe. 

Half of the audience is on their feet before Harry’s even pulled out of his final spin, the other half joining in as the music hits one last chord and stops. He takes his bows, and by the time he’s left the Kiss and Cry, Louis is waiting for him in the back corridor, hidden around the corner from the prying eyes of the cameras. He grabs Harry’s wrist as he walks in, presses him back against the hard wall. 

“You’re a bit of a copycat, you know?” Louis murmurs as he leans close, having to stand on tip toe to nip at Harry’s chin which is a good four inches higher than usual due to the skates. Harry chuckles, a low sound that reverberates in Louis’ chest. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” he says, hands cupping Louis’ jaw and leaning down to press their foreheads together. 

“Arvo Part,” Louis says, though he’s pretty focused on not snogging Harry senseless. Can’t very well send him into the sea of press with kiss-swollen lips, no matter how much he may want to. “Stole my composer.” 

Harry snorts, tilts his head to nudge his nose against Louis’. If he can’t have a real one, Eskimo kisses will have to suffice. Louis is surprisingly okay with it. 

“No rule that says we can’t use the same one,” Harry says, a hand sliding down Louis’ side to his hip, squeezing. His fingertips dig in just above the curve of Louis’ bum, and Louis could whimper with how good it feels. God, the tension is going to kill him. 

“Though I may have used you as inspiration.” 

Louis’ brow furrows as he looks up at him. That’s-- What? 

“What? What do you mean?” 

Harry laughs, infuriatingly coy, and presses a kiss to Louis’ forehead. “You’ll figure it out.” 

Louis frowns as Harry detaches himself, giving him one last look before rounding the corner to give his soundbites. 

Harry used Louis as inspiration? What the hell does that even mean? 

\---

He figures it out after the long program. 

They share a composer. Harry’s long program is called “Your Hand in Mine,” and if his annoying random song lyric text messages can tell Louis anything, it’s that his exhibition skate is set to ”Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” by John Mayer. 

Because there’s 

_can’t seem to hold you like I want to so I can feel it in my arms_

and 

_how dare you say it’s nothing to me_

and

_baby you’re the only light i ever saw_

And maybe Louis is reading too much into this. Maybe he is because all things considered, “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” isn’t the best song to dedicate to like, a program about how much you love someone and want to be with them, but maybe it’s different than that, maybe it’s what Harry only thought was happening between them, back in the summer when he first chose the music. Before he told Louis how he felt. Back when he thought-- God, Louis doesn’t even know what Harry thought of him then, but he knows he never wants to. 

Fuck. Louis needs to make sure. He should’ve made sure a long time ago, actually. God, he’s just wasted so much _time._

\---

He corners Harry before he can get into the shower that night. Louis took back his national champion title earlier that day-- the victory was satisfying, but felt miniscule compared to what he could have, and Jesus, how did he get here, to a place where his love life is more important than winning-- and Harry had fallen to second, but they were both going to Worlds, so it didn’t really matter, in the long run. No one came close to touching their scores. 

In any case, he catches Harry when he walks in the door, both of them in their warm-up gear. He crowds Harry against the door once it’s closed, hands on his ribs and hips pressing into the other boy’s, pinning him. Harry smiles down at him, so fond and bright that Louis loses his breath. 

“Hi,” Harry says, bringing a still-cold hand up to rest against Louis’ jaw. He shudders as Harry’s thumb traces his jaw, making his spine tingle and no, okay, Louis needs to focus. 

“What’s your exhibition skate?” He curls his fingers into the fabric of Harry’s jacket. Harry huffs out a laugh. 

“Not what I thought you were going to ask,” Harry mumbles, leaning in. Louis tilts his head away, tugging on his jacket a bit. 

“I need you to answer.” 

Harry frowns, thumb still stroking over Louis’ jaw. “John Mayer. Slow Dancing in a--mmph.” He only looks more confused as Louis’ hand covers his mouth, but Louis just stares at him for a second, waiting until the tension leaves Harry’s face and shoulders. 

“I get it,” Louis says slowly, significantly, and when Harry’s eyes cloud with confusion again, he repeats the words. 

“I get it.” Christ, and does he ever. Harry based his season’s programs on Louis. On them. Their relationship. Every time he skated, he was skating _for them_ and oh God, it’s just too much. 

The moment the realization hits, Louis actually sees Harry’s eyes change, going from guarded to bright and open and full of actual, like, stars. Stars. Louis is so gone for this boy. It’s actually kind of embarrassing. 

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, removing his hand. 

“Please,” Harry says, voice cracking, and Louis rocks up on his toes, a hand firmly pressed to the nape of Harry’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. 

It’s so good. Harry’s plush mouth slots to his like it’s the easiest thing in the world as his arms wind around Louis’ back, pulling him close. It’s slick and Harry’s warm and solid and _there_ , cradling Louis’ head with one gentle hand and the other moving down his spine, leaving spikes of heat in its wake. Louis nearly whimpers when that big-- so big, so ridiculously big-- hand palms and squeezes at his bum, kneading at the flesh to make him shudder against Harry’s chest. 

Fuck, _fuck._ Why did they wait so long to do this? 

Louis tugs him away from the door, walking backward toward the bed, trying to unzip Harry’s warm-up jacket and still kiss him as he goes. Louis’ luck being what it is, of course, or maybe Harry’s lack of grace being what _it_ is means that Louis stumbles over one of his own discarded trainers and nearly goes sprawling. Thankfully, Harry catches him, saving him from embarrassment and a twisted ankle, maybe, whatever, Louis isn’t thinking about it because he’s too busy pushing Harry’s jacket off his shoulders and getting out of his own. 

“Been waiting so long for this,” Harry murmurs against his mouth, pulling away briefly as Louis makes a demanding noise at him, tugging at his shirt. It’s gone in the next moment and he’s back against Louis, all smooth, pale skin except where his neck and chest are tinged with pink, flushed. Louis wants to trace it with his tongue, make it go from light pink to dark, edging on red. Harry distracts him by tugging Louis’ shirt off him, and then it’s skin against skin, electric and fucking perfect. 

Louis spins them, shoves Harry down on the bed and pulls at the waistband of his sweatpants, getting them down and off, along with Harry’s shoes and socks. He steps out of his own sweatpants before crawling on top of Harry-- who looks halfway to wrecked already with heavy eyes and red, spit-slick lips-- settling on his lap, and grinding his hips down against the hard line of Harry’s cock. Harry arches off the bed, lithe and beautiful, and yeah, fuck _yes,_ this is so good. So much better than anything Louis could have (and has) imagined. 

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Louis says leaning down for a rough kiss, licking into Harry’s mouth and rutting his hips down. He groans when Harry’s hands go to his arse again, slipping under the waistband of his pants to properly grope. He gets a hand between them, tugging Harry’s pants down to free his dick, swollen and pretty and just as big as he remembers. Bigger, probably, and that sends a little thrill down Louis’ spine that no one needs to know about. 

He lets out a sharp breath at Harry’s fingers hooking in his waistband and pulling, freeing his cock as well. His brain short circuits when Harry takes both of them in one hand and strokes, the other still palming Louis’ arse, fingertips digging in. 

Heat coils at the base of his spine as he fucks up into Harry’s hand, slick and tight and hot, his arms straining to keep him up. Harry’s pupils have gone huge, a peep of green around a wide pool of black, his cheeks flushed and sweat beading at his hairline. It’s the best goddamn thing Louis has ever seen, and he can’t resist changing his position a bit to slide a hand up to Harry’s chest so he can pinch at a nipple. Harry whines, high-pitched and needy, and speeds up his hand. 

“You look so good,” Louis pants, squeezing Harry’s nipple again, feeling him start to tremble under his legs. He wants to lean down and replace his fingers with his mouth, but he’s not sure he can manage it without falling over. This’ll have to do. “You’ve done so well, Haz, you look so good. You can come, if you want. I want to see you.”

Harry acquiesces, body going taut under Louis just before he shakes apart with a broken sort of noise. Harry’s hand becomes slicker between them, easing the slide, and it’s not long before he’s thumbing over the head of Louis’ cock, pressure just right, and sending him over the edge after him, vision whiting out with the force of it. 

When Louis comes back to himself, he’s still leaning over Harry, arm shaking with the effort of keeping himself from collapsing. Harry’s running a soothing hand down his back and looking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. It’s so lovely that Louis has to lean down and kiss him softly before rolling to the side to collapse on his back. It’s another few minutes of catching his breath and trying to convince himself that getting the wet flannel now will be better than waking up with dried come on his stomach later. 

In the end, it’s Harry who hauls himself up-- with absolutely no egging needed from Louis, thanks-- and wanders into the bathroom, cleaning himself up before coming back with a flannel for Louis. Louis moves to take it, but Harry dodges, presses him back against the mattress gently and does it himself. Louis lets the warmth that blooms in his chest spread out over his entire body. 

“What?” Harry asks when he finally notices the dopey smile plastered on Louis’ face. 

“Nothing,” he responds, smiling at him serenely. “Just thinking about how lovely you are.” 

Harry smiles up at him, crawling onto the bed to kiss him. Louis loses himself in it for a moment, tangling a hand in Harry’s curls and kissing him until he has to pull back for breath. 

“I was also trying to decide,” Louis says, pausing to mouth at the underside of Harry’s jaw, intent on leaving a mark. Harry hums in response. Louis redoubles his efforts. 

“Decide what?” Harry’s voice is rough, deep, and fuck, if they don’t stop soon, Louis is going to be more than ready for another go. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. He can already feel Harry chubbing up half-hard against his hip, and the thought’s more intoxicating that he’d like to admit.

“Oh, just whether I’d rather ride you or fuck you until you can’t skate straight.” 

Harry’s dick twitches against Louis’ hip and he grins. 

“I’d be fine either way,” Harry offers, grinding down a bit, making Louis groan. “So I suppose I’ll leave it up to you.” 

Louis snorts. “Seeing as we have a gala in two days, I think we’re rather limited in our options,” he says, pushing at Harry’s shoulder until he’s on his back again. Louis slides off the bed, crouching between his knees. Harry sits up on his elbows, eyebrow quirking up as he smirks. 

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he says. Louis runs a hand up his thigh, follows it with his mouth and sinks his mouth down over Harry’s dick. 

He’s a pretty creative guy.

\---

“So, like,” Harry says later, as the light outside, fading into the horizon, colored in dusty pinks and oranges, filters through the shity hotel curtains, painting the room in a soft glow. Harry looks well-fucked with his hair mussed up and a large lovebite on the underside of his jaw. He’s looking up at the ceiling kind of nervously, though. That won’t do. Louis snorts at him.

“If you didn’t have that accent, I’d swear you were a valley girl,” he teases, rolling over on his side to look at Harry’s face. Harry rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever, like, gag me with a spoon,” he says, in what Louis guesses is supposed to be an imitation of the California Valley Girl accent, but really just makes him sound like a complete knobhead. 

“You’ve watched _Clueless_ one too many times, love.” 

“It’s a cult classic,” Harry says so seriously that Louis can’t do anything but give him a fond look.

“Right, of course. I must have forgotten.” 

“Heeey.” Harry pouts, making Louis laugh and poke him in the side until he starts to smile. He leans in to kiss him, because he can totally do that now, and it’s the best thing. Well, one of them. They kiss for a few long moments, nothing more than a lazy slide of tongues and grazes of teeth. Harry looks relaxed when Louis pulls away, sated. Happy. 

“I love you,” Louis says, watching for the way Harry’s smile widens into something real. “Probably always have.” 

“That’s proper romantic of you,” Harry says, laughing when Louis pinches at his nipple in outrage. He catches Louis hand, linking their fingers. _Your hand in mine_ , Louis thinks, and immediately hates himself for being so sappy. 

“I love you,” he says again, pressing it to Harry’s mouth and cheeks and neck. 

“I love you too, Lou,” Harry says, cheek dimpling up so prettily that Louis has to lean in and kiss it. 

Louis nudges his nose against Harry’s. “Boyfriends?” 

“Only if we can watch _Clueless_ when we get back to LA.” 

Louis laughs.

“Of course, love. Anything you want.” 

\---

(Two nights later, Louis takes Harry by the hand to drag him over to the drink table at the farewell dinner, and conveniently forgets to let go. Harry picks up a maraschino cherry as they wait for their drinks and dangles it over Louis’ mouth, rubbing it teasingly over his lips, probably staining them red. Louis tries not to think about the night before, when Harry had done the same thing with Louis’ dick and then kissed him afterward, tasting tangy and sharp and like something made just for Louis. 

Someone clears their throat behind them, loudly, and Harry drops the cherry in surprise. Into Louis’ mouth. He sputters, choking, and Harry slaps his back, seemingly to help. Louis is ninety-nine percent sure that slapping someone’s back has never helped them. Ever. 

“Hm,” the someone says, except it’s not someone, it’s Simon, because Louis knows that hum anywhere. Louis turns slowly, giving him a weak smile. He doesn’t drop Harry’s hand, but that doesn’t seem to actually bother Simon, who’s just looking at them with a thoughtful expression on his face. 

Louis’ never been more terrified in his life. 

“I see you two finally got your act together,” he says finally, and if Louis were absolutely sure he’d already hacked up that cherry, he would’ve choked on it all over again. 

“We did,” Harry says, because apparently _he’s_ the functional one in situations like this. Annoying. 

Simon nods, a small smile on his face. “Thought you might. Congratulations.” 

Christ. Were they so obvious that even Simon noticed? Louis feels his cheeks heat, and he squeezes Harry’s fingers, reassured when Harry squeezes back. 

“Thanks, Simon,” he says with a smile. 

The bartender clears his throat, sliding their drinks across the surface of the bar. Harry thanks the man and stuffs a tip in the tip jar-- always so considerate-- as Louis takes his vodka tonic and takes a sip, wincing. God, he hates vodka tonics. He always orders them and realizes it’s Long Islands he likes. He’s just about to grab the bartender’s attention again when he feels a hand press to his shoulder a moment later, and he turns, eyebrow raised. 

“See me first thing when we resume training in LA,” Simon says, “we’ll need to sort out your schedule. Wouldn’t want either of you unfit for competition in March.” 

Louis looks to Harry who watches, horrified, as Simon walks away. He turns to Louis, eyes wide.

“That’s a real thing?” 

Louis laughs so hard he spills his drink.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an epilogue could still be in the works! thank you all!!!


End file.
